To Be Loved
by HDKingsbury
Summary: This sequel to ALW's Phantom continues, with old characters and new, happy times and sad times, adventure and romance, but most of all our favorite Opera Ghost – Erik.
1. Chapter 1

**To Be Loved**

By HDKingsbury and MadLizzy  
Copyright 2009

**Author's Note:** Several months ago, I had a dream. I don't always dream of Phantom, but that night I did. It wasn't a complete story, but the germ of an idea. I explained the idea to my friend and collaborator, Lizzy, and asked if she would like to my co-author in this endeavor. The result is _To Be Loved. _

_To Be Loved _is a blend of ALW and Leroux--using the basic storyline of Webber's show (the stage version, not the movie, though you're free you visually imagine whatever Erik you want), and Leroux's background for the characters (Christine's childhood, Erik's past, and other things ALW left out).

This will be a story in two parts. The first half will deal with reconciliation. There will be happiness and sadness, and maybe some Erik Angst now and then. Many stories have been written that take up after the stage show ends. Some plot elements may sound familiar--after all, there are only so many different ways to get these two characters back together! I hope, however, that Lizzy and I are doing some things different and giving this story the HD/L "special touch."

-0-0-0-

**To Be Loved For What One Is**  
Part One: Reconciliation

_To be loved for what one is, is the greatest exception. The great majority love in others only what they lend him, their own selves, their version of him._ ~Goethe

-0-0-0-

**Chapter One**

_February 1881_

"Can I get you something?" Raoul asked. Lines of concern were etched deeply into his face, giving him a haggard appearance. The evening had been traumatic for both of them. They had been put through more horrors than any person should ever have to endure.

He carefully regarded Christine as she sat staring into the fireplace, watching the golden glow that reflected off her face. She looked fascinated, almost hypnotized, as she gazed at the flames dancing around the logs. Ever since they had fled the opera house, she had been withdrawn and uncommunicative.

Raoul slowly shook his head. There was little doubt that her mind was a million miles away. No, not millions, but much closer. He ground his teeth. Perhaps as close as the fifth cellar beneath the opera house. He continued watching her, searching for some sign as to what she was thinking. Then he saw her body quiver in reaction to an unpleasant thought. She looked so frail, so vulnerable, and in that moment, all he wanted to do was to hold her and protect her. He grabbed the blanket from the sofa and draped it about her, his hands resting lightly on her shoulders.

"Thank you," she said, looking up at him, her face pale, her smile wan. Her cold fingers brushed accidentally against his as she clutched the wrap and pulled it tight, and she gently shrugged his hands off her.

Interpreting this to mean that she wasn't in the mood to be held, he sat down in the chair opposite hers. Though his own clothes had dried after the soaking they'd gotten in the waters beneath the opera house, he still felt chilled and the warmth of the fire felt good. He looked across at Christine and wished he could do more for her at the moment, but it appeared that what she desired most was room to think; to digest all that had happened. Trying to shrug off his own feelings of helplessness, he joined her in staring at the flickering firelight, finding a calming, sedative effect in the cheery blaze that helped deaden the horrors they had endured.

He spent several minutes listening to the mantel clock tick, then tried once again to engage Christine in conversation, but after a few monosyllabic responses from her, gave up. So he sat, stewing in his own thoughts. Over and over, he berated himself. Tonight's disaster had been his fault. His well thought out plans had gone awry and, worse still, had placed Christine in danger.

His mind raced back six months, to that night on the rooftop. Christine had been frightened that night, and he had promised to take her away from the darkness and shadows that threatened her. He closed his eyes, unable to keep that scene from replaying itself in his mind. Damn it! He'd failed to keep his promise to Christine—to keep her safe.

It should not have ended this way. The plan had been simplicity itself. As no one could find the Phantom's secret lair, what was needed was a way to entice the fiend out into the open, and what better way to do this than to have Christine sing the Phantom's opera? The Phantom, obsessed with the young singer, would be lured into the open. When that happened, the gendarmes who had been situated at strategic points throughout the auditorium were to have picked him off.

But it hadn't worked out that way. Instead, this Phantom had hoodwinked them all.

Not only had he disabled Ubaldo Piangi, the company's Don Juan, but he had also had the audacity to take the tenor's place on the stage. With the character wearing a hooded cloak in that scene, nobody noticed the switch until it was nearly too late. Nobody, that is, except Christine. It might have been the change in her partner's voice, or maybe the way he moved on the stage that tipped her off. Whatever the reason, at the height of their strange duet about passions bursting into bloom, she had exposed the fraud for the world to see.

And that was when the nightmare began.

Raoul tried sorting out his thoughts, but the rest of the evening was a whirl of confusing images and emotions. The Phantom, who at times lived up to his reputation and gave the impression of being more ghost than human, abducted Christine before the entire audience. Making use of his intimate knowledge of the opera house, the man—for he was, after all, only a man and not a ghost—had contrived to have the all the auditorium's lights to go out, and during the ensuing confusion had carried off his victim to his underground den.

Raoul had tried to follow, but it had been a difficult task in the dark. There was no way of knowing in which direction they'd gone. Adding to the confusion were the people yelling and bumping into each other as they scurried about. One of the stagehands finally restored some of the lights, and Raoul continued searching for any clue that might tell him where Christine had been taken. The task seemed hopeless, but then he ran across the mysterious ballet mistress, Mme Giry. Raoul had long thought that the woman knew more about this unholy denizen of the opera house than she let on, but at least she had been willing to help. She'd set him in the right direction, taking him to the stairs that led to the cellar. She herself could go no further, she'd said, and warned him to keep his hand at the level of his eyes. Her words made little sense, and in his hurry to rescue Christine, dashed off in the direction of the cellars without giving her warning further thought. Too late, he had finally understood what the ballet mistress's cryptic words meant.

He made his way through the labyrinthine underground. There, five levels below the opera house, he found the vast glassy lake of which Mme Giry had spoken. Finding no other way of crossing it, he swam the frigid water, which was dark as death itself, and on the other side found the Phantom's hideout. In his elation, Raoul momentarily dropped his guard, and those few unguarded seconds were all the Phantom had needed.

Raoul tugged his collar at the memory of the rope about his neck. What was it old Buquet had once called it? Ah yes, a magical lasso, something to do with the Punjab. But what did India have to do with any of this? Had the Phantom once lived there? Was that where he'd learned his magic? Perhaps before coming to Paris, the man had been a _fakir_, performing in the streets of Calcutta or Bombay. Raoul grinned humorlessly. The thought of the mysterious and powerful Phantom performing such feats as fire walking, snake charming and lying on a bed of nails might have been funny under different circumstances.

Once he was the Phantom's prisoner, things went—as the old saying went—from bad to worse. There had been shouting, begging, pleading and cajoling. The Phantom had demanded that Christine make an unholy choice. "Refuse me, and you send your lover to his death!" he'd screamed while Raoul, helpless to escape, had been forced to look on and begged Christine's forgiveness.

And then, the strangest thing had happened. In the midst of all this anguish, it stood out in crystal clarity. It was what Christine did next, and it haunted him still. In spite of his threats to her, she had walked over to the Phantom and embraced the misshapen monster. She spoke to the fiend—her voice soft and tender, like a lover's voice—and told him that he was not alone. She reached out to him, put her hand against his cheek.

And then, she had bestowed a kiss upon his godforsaken face.

The very thought of it made Raoul sick to his stomach. Even now, he was having trouble comprehending how she had been able to draw up the courage to do such a thing, but then, Christine had been surprising him a lot of late. Despite the fact that she looked delicate and frail, like an ethereal fairy princess from one of those dark stories of the north her father used to tell them when they were children, she sometimes surprised him with an unexpected strength of will.

As he sat, lost in thoughts of those final moments in that subterranean realm of music and magic, Christine's voice interrupted.

"You don't have to stay here," she was saying to him.

Raoul looked from the fireplace to her face. There it was again, that hint of strength and courage in her expression, as if he were the one needing protecting.

"You've had a difficult day," he said.

Christine responded with a sad smile. "So have you. You should go home, get some rest."

"And what about you?"

She cast a look about the room. "I'll be fine. I'm here, in my own apartment, thanks to you. And if I need anything, Mme Moreau is downstairs," she said, reminding Raoul that the landlady would be nearby.

"But…you shouldn't be left alone."

"Why?"

"What if _he _comes looking for you? When we left the opera house, he still hadn't been found."

Christine gazed forlornly at the carpet. "He won't come back. He gave his word."

"The word of a madman," Raoul said angrily, immediately regretting the harshness of his tone. "It's just that…how can we trust him?"

"We can," is all she would say on the matter, and Raoul at last accepted that there was nothing more he could say that would change her mind. He remained a while longer, wanting to satisfy himself that she was truly well enough to be left alone. Then he rose and made ready to leave, kissing her innocently on the forehead, encouraging her to get some sleep.

"We'll talk more on this tomorrow," he said before leaving.

She nodded. "Yes. Tomorrow."

-0-0-0-

Christine listened to Raoul's footsteps as they receded down the hall, hearing his footfall become more faint as he went down the staircase that led to the entrance of the building. She rose from her seat and stood before the window, pulling the curtain aside as she watched for his figure to emerge. Pools of weak light from the streetlamps were all that broke the gloom of the night. Ah! There he was, walking away. She remained at the window until his form was swallowed up by the darkness, then pulled the curtains closed and walked back over to the fireplace.

She appreciated that Raoul had wanted to stay with her, and thought fondly of how it had been so like him to be her knight in shining armor. But another part of her that was angry with him. After all, it had been Raoul's plan to use her as bait to lure Erik out of hiding. From the moment he'd told her his plan, she'd had misgivings, yet when she questioned him, told him how she felt like she was being twisted in too many directions, he had assured her that nothing could possibly go wrong.

But it had.

_No! It wasn't his fault, _she reminded herself. _Raoul has many good qualities. His only thought was to protect me_.

If so, then why did she find herself overcome by a sudden ambivalence towards him? This was curious, and she wondered what was happening to her. Could it be that she was still in shock from the night's events?

Her eyes burned and she drew in a ragged breath, doing her best to keep her tears at bay, but too many raw emotions were running rampant. Raoul had been right about one thing. What she needed now was rest. If she lay down and got some sleep, she would be able to think more clearly in the morning. She would be able to look at this evening's event and make sense out of why they left her so terribly confused.

Nervously, she rubbed the palms of her hands against her skirt. That was when she realized that she was still wearing the wedding dress Erik had insisted that she put on. She looked it over. The hem had come out in a few places where she had stumbled over it, and the white silk was marred with water stains, but still, it was a lovely.

She went into her bedroom and carefully stepped out of the gown. From her closet, she pulled out a flannel nightgown and slipped it on, then hugged herself. There, that was better. She felt safer, more comfortable in her favorite nightdress. She looked down at the floor, the pile of white fabric forlornly staring up at her. What was she going to do with the wedding dress?

She picked it up and gently laid it out on top of the quilt, brushing out some of the wrinkles with her hand. She stopped. Really, this would never do. The dress was a reminder of things she'd rather forget. She should tear it up and throw it in the dustbin, but she hesitated to do so. She held it up, admiring the frothy rows of lace and delicate beadwork. It would be a shame to throw it away. Perhaps tomorrow, she could clean it and put it up. But that would be silly, too. What did she think she was going to do with it, save it for her real wedding?

A nervous giggle escaped. Would Raoul approve? She shook her head and folded it as neatly as she could, putting it away, in the chest at the foot of her bed. She had no idea what she would end up doing with the dress, but one thing she did know—she was not going to throw it away.

Then she lay down on her bed and closed her eyes, wondering if sleep would come.

-0-0-0-

Someone knocking at her door woke Christine, and she was surprised to see that it was almost nine o'clock. It turned out that amidst all her emotional turmoil, she had managed to fall asleep.

"Who is it?" she called out.

"It's me," rang out a singsong voice. It was Mme Moreau, the landlady. "I didn't want to disturb you right away, not after the awful night you had, but I thought you would be awake by now. I made you a nice pot of tea, and brought you some fresh croissants to go with the morning paper."

Christine smiled in spite of herself. Leave it to Mme Moreau to brighten her mood.

The landlady entered the room, carrying a tray. Mme Moreau was a middle-aged woman, rather on the short side, making her look more plump than she really was. Her brownish-red hair, which was naturally curly, was typically worn tucked under a white mobcap. She was a common sense woman who, after the death of her husband, opened a lodging house within walking distance of the opera house. It was a neat and clean establishment, and lodgers could rent one or more rooms for as few as one or more nights, or for extended periods. Its close proximity to the opera made Mme Moreau's establishment a favorite with those members of the company who needed a place to live during the season, one with reasonable rates.

Christine put on her robe and helped Madame with the tray.

"Are you all right, my dear?" Madame asked. "You look a little peaked."

"Yes, I'm fine. A little tired is all."

"Then we shall start you off with some tea," said Mme Moreau, pouring a cup. "Sugar? Cream? And here, I brought your favorite marmalade for the croissants."

Christine gratefully accepted the cup and sipped the hot brew appreciatively. "You're very kind. Thank you."

"Somebody's got to look after you girls. Well then, I'll be going back downstairs. If you need anything, just ring. I'll be in the kitchen." And with that, she left the room, leaving Christine alone to break her fast.

She thought about what she would do today. One thing she was certain of was that she was not up to returning to the opera house. Not today. She was only just beginning to feel a sense of normalcy. Returning there would serve no purpose. There would be people crowding around her asking her questions, asking about…asking about Erik. She wasn't even sure she wanted to see Raoul today, either. No, what she wanted more than anything else was to be left alone today. She would straighten her rooms, maybe read a book. Anything to keep from thinking about yesterday.

A smile formed on her face. Yes, that is what she would do. She would send a note to the opera house, explaining that she was too upset to come in today. She would stay home and pamper herself. Later this afternoon, if she felt better, she might go out and window-shop. There was a lovely dress she'd seen on display at the dressmaker's nearby. It cost far more than she could ever afford, but she certainly could look at it.

Feeling better now that she had made a decision, she picked up the paper. Her smile dimmed when she read the headlines in _Le Monde, _the leading newspaper of Paris_. _She stared at the newsprint, scarcely believing her words like _disaster, ruin, beast, _and _freak of nature_ screamed out at her.

_Monster Kidnaps Diva While Horrified Onlookers Watch Helplessly!_

"Oh, no," she whispered, hoping against hope that if she closed her eyes and blinked, the terrible words would simply go away. But when she opened her eyes, they were still there, taunting her. She gasped at the illustration of a swarthy, ape-like man with fangs and claws, bound by ropes and dragged behind a wagon. The caption read, "Criminal Also Attacked Sr. Piangi," and adjacent to the frightening image was an illustration featuring Ubaldo Piangi himself, based upon a photographic image taken years before his characteristic paunch had begun to develop. Why, she barely recognized the man! He bore no more resemblance to the singer she knew than did the caricature of the gorilla-man representing Erik.

Erik. Her teacher. The man who had shown her nothing but kindness and patience for the past year, until Raoul reentered her life. Only recently had she realized that he was jealous of her old friend. Too late had she realized that Erik's interest in her had grown beyond the professional, and had turned into romantic love. She brushed a tear from her eye.

_If only he had been honest with me from the beginning, instead of hiding, instead of maintaining the pretense of being my benefactor,_ she thought. _We might have avoided all of this…this pain and suffering._

She turned her attention to the news, and read with relief that Piangi had only been rendered unconscious. In the seconds immediately after the lights had gone out last night, she had heard an ear-splitting shriek. It had been La Carlotta, screaming that Piangi had been murdered. Apparently, the reports of the tenor's death were premature. He was at the present recovering in his own home, and Christine was relieved to read that he had suffered no permanent injury.

For that, she was thankful. Piangi may not have been her ideal singing partner, but all in all, he was not a bad man. A little pompous, perhaps, but not bad. As she continued reading, she couldn't help but chuckle. Why, it sounded as if the rotund tenor was already surrounded by wealthy patrons, and news wire services were sending a preposterous story all across the globe of how Piangi had bravely fought the _monster _in defense of the poor defenseless Mlle Daaé.

That brought a grimace to her face. _Defenseless_, she scoffed. Funny, but she had never felt defenseless, not with a half dozen rifles trained on Erik—and her. She flushed as she thought of Erik's arms around her, his hands touching her thigh, her waist, her…her whole being. A thought flashed through her mind.

_Erik! What has become of him?_

Thinking of Erik reminded her of the opera house, and the turmoil that her friends must be experiencing. It was a good thing she wasn't going there today. She couldn't bear the thought of returning to it, not when her own emotions were running high. In fact, she wondered if she ever wanted to return.

A career on the stage was never something she had wanted for herself. That had been her father's goal, and later, it was Erik's. All her life, she had aimed to please the men who influenced her the most: Her father, Erik, and Raoul. Sweet, heroic Raoul, who wanted her to be his wife, and who rushed to help her when he saw her struggling to meet the demands and expectations heaped upon her by the managers and by her teacher.

_Fools rush in where angels fear to tread._

Why did that phrase keep popping into her head?

_Raoul is a good man, a fine man, a proper man. He has never behaved untowardly. He comes from one of the oldest families in Europe, and could provide for my every need…my every need…save one. As the wife of a noble, I would never be allowed to perform in public again_.

There it was again, the question of career. What harm was there in marrying Raoul? She'd never have to work again. Never worry about her future. Never associate with coarse workmen and women of questionable virtue. Never _be_ a woman of questionable virtue, for that matter. He was the logical choice. The safe choice.

Suddenly, she longed to be back in her old dressing room, listening to Erik play his violin and sing sweet music to her.

_I must be losing my mind! The ordeal of the past few days must be catching up with me. All my life, I have allowed others to determine my fate. First, it was my father. Later, after he died, it was Mama Valérius. At the opera house, it became the managers, and even Carlotta. Then, it became a struggle between Erik and Raoul. What is happening to me? Is this what I want? No! I want to stop being a marionette, dancing to any tune I hear, and live my own life, on my own terms._

She set the paper aside and paced the room.

_Well, it is about time I grew up. I am nearly twenty years old, for goodness sake! I may even make the wrong decisions, but at least they will be mine. _

Wrong decisions…wrong behaviors…wrong, wrong, wrong.

If Erik was the wrong man, then why was it that when he'd kissed her, it felt so right? Is this what he had meant with his scandalous lyrics about 'buds bursting into bloom'? She compared that kiss to the chaste brushes of the lips that Raoul had bestowed upon her. They hardly compared to the passion that Erik stirred in her. The very thought of it brought a rush of warmth to her cheeks.

The doorbell rang, and she heard Mme greet Raoul.

_He'll be up here soon,_ _knocking at my door and inquiring as to my health. He has probably brought flowers, perhaps chocolates, too. Good Raoul. Kind Raoul. Always doing the right thing._

Then why did that thought annoy her?

-0-0-0-


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two**

Despair

_Without you I am entombed,  
My flesh rots obediently  
And falls away from the bone.  
But just your fleeting presence  
Brings life to me and fills this  
Marginal body with brassy resurrection.  
Where you are, there is my fragile body  
And thirsty soul so longing for you.  
I'm a reed waiting, rigid for your breath;  
Touch it and you create harmony.  
I'm addicted to your play,  
An instrument in search of you.  
Without you, I'm buried in mourning,  
Eaten up in grief._

~Divan 1641, by Rumi - 13th Century Persian Poet

-0-0-0-

_Erik thought he had eluded the mob. Too late, he discovered that he was wrong. With so many hunting him down, his attempt to escape turned into an exercise in futility. Like a pack of braying hounds, they were on him. He fought hard, but then there was the flash of a blade followed by searing pain radiating from his left shoulder…and the struggle was over. Under ordinary circumstances, the wound would be considered serious but not fatal. In the current situation, however, it was as good as a death sentence. With his ability to defend himself diminished, the mob quickly gained the upper hand. _

_Overwhelmed by the press of bodies, Erik was forced to his knees. He winced and clenched his teeth, refusing to cry out as he felt each fist, each boot, pummel him into submission. To continue struggling was pointless and, at that moment, he resigned himself to his fate. He no longer cared to resist because, for the first time in his life, he felt remorse. Whatever it was that fate had in store for him—and it surely was not going to be pleasant or long in coming—it would be nothing more than he deserved. _

_Until tonight, his life had been an existence filled with misery and anguish, pain and sorrow, punctuated by brief respites of ennui and cloaked with an outward show of bravado. All his life, his only wish had been to live an ordinary life, to be an ordinary man, but his face precluded this from ever happening. Then, about a year ago, he spied a young and lonely singer. _

_In his desperation to escape his own loneliness, he approached her, pretended to be her Angel of Music—poor, innocent child, to have believed in such fables! Her face haunted his dreams; her voice—that beautiful clear soprano that was a gift of the gods of music—haunted his waking moments. He began to believe that she was __his_ _angel, sent to save __him__. Such dreams fueled a madness that began to eat away at him. Months of teaching Christine, of training her to use her wonderful voice, had brought them closer, and Erik had foolishly begun to believe that she could love him for who he was…and __what__ he was. _

_He became obsessed with the idea of the two of them singing of their love on the stage for the world to see. For weeks, he hardly ate or slept, dedicating all his energies to creating what he was sure would be his masterpiece, the magnum opus that would make Christine his—an opera he called _Don Juan Triumphant_. It should have been perfect, but instead of winning the fair maiden's hand, it turned into a disaster, and the house of cards he'd been building came crashing down on top of him. _

_The shock of watching his well-laid plans unravel before his very eyes drove Erik near the brink. And when he was closest to the precipice, when his anger lashed out and threatened the very person he loved, something happened that changed his life. That 'something' was Christine. _

_Frightened, brave little Christine! She did what no one else, not even his poor mother, had been able to do. She had been able to see past the haughty Phantom persona, and saw instead the aching man inside. For the first time, somebody showed him kindness and understanding. After all the terrible things he had done to her, she had been able to rise above the sordidness he represented…and she kissed him. On the mouth. The way a woman kissed a man._

_In that moment, all the barriers Erik had erected around his heart came crashing down. All the wickedness he had held precious was let go. And because of this, he had been able to let her go. Tonight, he had done something right. At last, he understood how wicked and selfish he had been, understood right from wrong, and made no excuses for himself. And so he released Christine and her young man. And strangely enough, it had felt good. Even with his heart breaking, it had felt good. _

_But without Christine, there was no more purpose in living. It was time to end this charade that had been his life. _

_He looked about at the angry faces glaring at him. Death was only a few breaths away, and Erik knew what he had to do. He had to empty himself of all remaining anger. He would not hate the mob. Instead, he would think only of kindness and compassion, because this is what Christine would have wanted him to do. He took in a deep breath, forcing the tension from his body. Perhaps, if there really were an afterlife, some deity on the other side would show him mercy, the way Christine had, and allow him peace at last. He closed his eyes as if in prayer, and imagined de Chagny leading Christine by the hand, like a present day Orpheus leading his beloved Eurydice out of the dark Underworld and into the realm of light and beauty. _

Don't look back, Christine_, he implored silently. _Don't allow yourself to become trapped in the darkness as I have been. Do not look back at what is happening to your poor, devoted Erik, whose life is a small price to pay for your happiness.

_A ragtag ruffian tugged on his wounded arm, sending waves of pain radiating from it and forcing Erik's thoughts back to the present. He refused to resist when his arms were pulled behind his back, and tried not to wince as he felt the stinging pinch of the rope digging into the flesh of his wrists. He vaguely recognized the stagehand, enflamed by the mob, who grabbed him by the hair and raised his head enough so that another length of rope could be slipped around his neck, ignoring the snickers being made at his expense. _

Go ahead. Do your worst. It is time I paid the piper.

_Waiting silently with his head bowed once again, he tried to hide the tears that pricked inside his eyelids. With no mask, there was no other way to conceal his face from the rude stares of the mob. That was the worst of it. He may have been repentant, but he still felt the shame of being a freak, a monster. His poor, dear mother should have ended his life the first time she had seen him. Ignoring the taunts and the mocking crowd as the rope was snugged tighter; his only hope was that the end would be swift. _

_Rough hands grabbed him and forced to his feet. Awkwardly, he stumbled as he was shoved toward the shambles of what had once been his living room. The other end of the rope swished through the air as it was tossed up and over a lighting fixture. Hopefully, the hardware would hold so that this farce would be over quickly. Erik tried to keep his eyes closed, but curiosity had always been a weakness in him, and he could not resist opening them long enough to see several burly men tugging on the other end of the rope, and he gasped involuntarily when the rope bite deep into the flesh of his neck. _

_Then with a jerk, he felt himself being hoisted up until his toes barely touched the floor. Though he had told himself that all he wanted was to die, his body betrayed him as it struggled for air. His mind tried to tell his body to relax, to accept the end, but his burning lungs refused to obey and spasmed uncontrollably. At once, a horrific thought flashed through his brain as he realized that in a matter of seconds his muscles would shudder one last time and he would soil himself. That would be the greatest humiliation of all. _

"_Dance, freak! Dance!" the mob shouted._

_Erik felt his body jerk harder as it tried to free itself. The rope dug deeper into his neck, strangling him as it crushed his windpipe. He futilely struggled for breath as he tried to ignore the panic rising in him. He opened his mouth to get more air, his tongue feeling unnaturally thick as it began to protrude through his ghastly lips. By now, his eyes were bulging from their sockets, and through a haze of red, he imagined his tormenters feeding on his gruesome appearance, whipped to a frenzy by their lust for his blood. One old hag stepped forward and jabbed at him with a stick, poking at him as if he were a slab of meat hanging in the butcher's shop. _

"_How does it feel, Monsieur le Fantôme?" she cackled. _

_Erik tried to ignore their taunts. How did they think it felt? It bloody hurt! The Punjab lasso was kinder. Used properly, it snapped the neck clean and Death followed instantly. Damn these amateurs. Curse his own unnatural strength, the spark of life that clawed for purchase! Why couldn't he just die and get it over? But his body continued to struggle._

_Erik was losing consciousness. The end was almost here. Then gunshots rang out and the rope went slack. He fell, his head slamming against the floor, leaving him stunned. His mouth opened and closed, like a fish out of water, as he sucked air into oxygen-starved lungs. Footsteps came from behind, and a shadowy figure bent over him and removed the rope from his neck. The crowd had backed away. Even without looking at them, he sensed that their blood lust had been slaked—at least for the moment. _

"_Why'd you do that?" the rabble shouted out. "We were just having some fun." _

"_That'll be enough of your 'fun'," replied an authoritarian voice. _

"_Is it still alive?" another asked. _

_Someone nudged him, but Erik closed his eyes. Why the bloody hell did these meddlers, whoever they were, have to interfere? All he wanted was death. He shuddered involuntarily as fingers felt his neck for a pulse. _

"_Unconscious, but alive. Bring me a towel or something. The bastard's bleeding like a stuck pig."_

_Erik grunted._ Whoever the fellow was, he isn't very sympathetic,_ he thought, then winced as the towel … or whatever it was they were using … was wrapped around his injured arm. An insane desire to giggle came over him as he wondered if they were using the good linen. The giggle, however, sounded more like the croak of a sick frog. _

At least I sound better than Carlotta did the night I made _her _croak like a frog, _he thought with bitter humor. _

"_I think he's coming 'round, Sergeant!"_

Ah! That explains what happened. The gendarmes are the ones who have come down and cut the fun short.

_Erik eyelids fluttered open as he was rolled onto his back. He tried to focus on his captors, to see their faces, but it was useless. Between his throbbing head, the loss of blood from his wounded arm and his injured throat, it was a chore just to keep from passing out. _

"_He's one ugly cuss," said a man in uniform standing over him._

_Erik tried to smile, but was sure it looked more like a sneer. _

Really? Am I that bad looking? And here I thought that all these years I was a handsome devil. Why did no one ever tell me?

_A second gendarme came over and leaned down, grabbing hold of his uninjured right arm while the other policeman took hold of the left. _

"_Come along," the man said, as if talking to a recalcitrant child. "And none of your tricks, or we'll have to get rough with you," he said as they lifted Erik to his feet and led him to the stairs and the wagon waiting to haul him away. Barely aware of what was happening, he looked at the stairs and wondered how he would ever be able to climb them in his condition… _

…and at that moment, Erik woke up. His throat hurt, his head was pounding, his heart was racing, and he felt sick to his stomach. The memories of that night continued to haunt him, especially in his sleep. He looked around and found he was sitting on the floor. He closed his eyes tight, forcing his lungs to breathe more slowly. At last, he was able to calm down.

Semi-darkness enveloped his cell. The last thing he remembered before the nightmare was leaning back and resting his eyes. It had been mid-day. Now, judging from the dusky color filtering through the dirty window across the hall from where he was situated, it was evening. Other than that, nothing had changed except the man guarding him. Apparently, Erik was not considered too serious of a risk, as the guard was dozing contentedly behind his desk, his feet resting on the top.

It had been three…no, four days since he had been brought here with the anticipation of an immediate death sentence, that the rescue from the lynch mob was merely a temporary stay of execution. Instead, very little had happened since that night. He was still sitting in his cell at the jail, still awaiting trial. What memories he had of that night were shrouded in pain.

The trauma his body had suffered—the physical beating he'd suffered, the loss of blood from the knife wound, and the after-effects of the lynching—had left him stunned. When given orders, he'd merely gone through the motions, like one of the automatons he had once created for the Shah, back in the days when he had been Court Magician in Teheran.

Sitting alone in his cell, with only his thoughts for company, he went over what happened after the mob had been quelled. With a gendarme on either side, he had been 'escorted'—a fancy term for half dragged, half-carried—to a wagon and driven to his new accommodations. Once his captors were satisfied that he was not going to attempt to escape, his wrists had been unbound. An aid kit was brought in, and he had been surprised that his injured arm received rudimentary treatment. Erik laughed sardonically. No doubt they wanted to keep him alive long enough to legally kill him. But the cut was deep and even now, the wound continued to throb painfully.

The throbbing in his head would not quit, and he allowed his head to rest against the wall. The cool, damp masonry felt good. His injured shoulder burned, and Erik suspected that infection had set in. It would have been easy enough to pull the bandages aside and look, but the sad fact was that he wasn't even interested. So he sat on the floor and inspected his cell for what was probably the hundredth time.

As confinements went, he had to admit that this one wasn't all that bad. As required by law for nearly a hundred years, his cell had been aired out annually and given a fresh coat of whitewash that covered the layers of filth and graffiti left behind by generations of caged men, and he was provided with basic amenities. In one corner was a chamber pot that was emptied once a day, and bolted to the floor was a cot with a threadbare blanket but no pillow. There was one other piece of furniture, a stool, also bolted to the floor to prevent an inmate from throwing it at anyone. But Erik eschewed the furniture, preferring most of the time to sit on the floor. His captors were reasonably humane. Although it was obvious from the expressions on their faces that they found his appearance distasteful, they apparently were not of a mind to starve him as he was given edible if unappetizing food twice a day along with a bucket of drinking water.

Taking into account the charges that were being leveled against him—charges that included attempted murder, kidnapping, extortion, and a few others thrown in for good measure—Erik considered his treatment generous. Back in Persia, such consideration for a condemned man would have been unheard of. The only troublesome aspect of his captivity was the chain that was shackled to his right ankle, permitting him minimal freedom of movement. After all, he was, according to his jailers, still considered a madman.

His guards were nothing like the cruel mob that had tried to hang him. From time to time, they would try to strike up a conversation with him. Mostly, they were curious. Was he born looking this way? Had he ever performed in the circus? Most of the time, though, Erik was not in a mood to answer. Just the thought of talking brought his right hand to his neck and he rubbed it gingerly. His throat was still hoarse and he wondered if his vocal chords were permanently damaged, but even if he could have talked without trouble, he wouldn't have answered. He wanted nothing to do with the world of the living and spent his waking hours staring at nothing, trying to think of…nothing.

This trial was merely a formality, stalling the inevitable. The verdict was a foregone conclusion—the man once known as the Phantom of the Opera would be found guilty, and he at last be put out of his misery. The only question was the method of execution that would be used. Was he to be hanged…again, or would he earn an appointment with "Madame Guillotine"?

-0-0-0-

**Author's Note: **A big thank you to those of you who left us a review. Lizzy and I appreciate them very, very much. While it is always nice to know that people are reading our new story, it is even more gratifying when somebody takes the time to leave us some feedback, even if it's nothing more than, "Hey, good chapter!"


	3. Chapter 3

To Be Loved  
Chapter 3

"I must see him."

Raoul stopped walking and turned to face Christine. He could not believe what she just said, that she needed to see this Phantom fellow. He shook his head in disgust. Four days had passed since their harrowing experience at the opera house and Raoul was concerned. He understood that Christine had been upset by the ordeal. Such a reaction was only natural. But by now, he thought that she should have begun to throw off its effects.

Unfortunately, the opposite was happening. Instead of returning to her happier self, she was growing quieter. He would not go so far as to describe her as being morose, but her behavior was definitely troubling. If he asked her what the matter was, she would shrug and say it was nothing or that she was simply being introspective because their recent experience had given her much to ponder. Her explanations did not hold water, though — not as far as he was concerned. Raoul was not the sort to give in to blue moods, and was uncomfortable around those who did. It wasn't healthy for a young woman to think too much. She should be smiling and happy, not frowning and sad, and he determined that it was time for him to do something about all this.

That was why he had invited Christine to come with him to the park. What better way to perk up flagging spirits than with a walk in the Bois? It was an unseasonably warm day in early spring with azure blue skies and delicate breezes. Birds twittered overhead, their songs echoing throughout the budding trees that lined the path that wended its way through the park, around small lakes, adding to the peaceful landscape. The only unpleasantness was the cry of a newsboy that could be heard in the distance, hawking the latest edition of one of the newspapers. Raoul scowled at the unwelcome intrusion. The papers were having a field day with their lurid stories of maidens, monsters and abductions, hinting through their sordid details at unspeakable horrors perpetrated underground. He did not dare let his mind wander to the possibility that the accusations were true.

"Christine, I don't think that's wise. What possible reason could you have for wanting to see that…that _thing_?"

Christine shuddered at Raoul's referring to her maestro in such an insensitive manner. "You wouldn't understand," she said, and how could she expect him to understand when she did not? All she knew is that she had to see Erik, to talk to him one more time. She needed to tell him that she was sorry. She did not expect Raoul to understand all of this, but that did not stop her from bristling at his easy dismissal of Erik, comparing her former teacher to something less than human. "And he is _not_ a thing," she added. "He is a man."

Her arguments, paltry as they were, did little to sway Raoul. "You are not to visit him, Christine! I forbid it!"

"What?" She rounded on him, stunned at the force of his declaration. Then anger set it. Who did he think he was, giving her orders!

Raoul, on his part, immediately regretted overstepping the bounds of propriety. "Forgive me, my dear. I did not mean to sound so…ill mannered. My only excuse is my concern for you. You have not been yourself of late, and that has left me worried."

She waved away his attempts to soothe her. 'There is no need for you to be troubled. I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself." She saw the doubt on his face. "And there is certainly no need for you to accompany me when I go."

"On the contrary; there is every reason for me to do so. A jail is hardly the place for a young lady to be, especially unescorted. And whether you care to admit it or not, the truth is that _he _is a madman—"

Christine's face flushed with anger. "He is not!"

"—and quite dangerous."

"He is behind bars. Besides, Erik would never hurt me."

Tendrils of jealousy wrapped themselves around Raoul's being. "Erik?" he said with a sneer. "So, that's what he calls himself. And when did you start calling him 'Erik'?"

"Shortly after we met. It is his name, after all. What did you think, that I went around calling him Angel or…or something silly like that?" Yet that was exactly what she had done at first, but she was not about to admit to that.

They had reached an impasse. Christine was the model of compassion and charity, and for that reason, he relented, though he insisted upon accompanying her when she went. It was, after all, only proper for her to be escorted by a man who could offer her protection should the prisoner (he bit back the urge to refer to Erik as a 'madman' again) attempt to take advantage of her gullibility.

It was important that a man of Raoul's standing be with her, to offer her protection from the ever-watchful eyes of Parisian Society. She might be the toast of the city right now, the "new Marguerite" as some of the papers had taken to calling her, but Society was fickle. It took little to offend Parisian sensibilities and Society would be all too quick to pass judgment on this well-meaning young woman he had sworn to defend and to love.

Already, trouble was brewing on the horizon, leaving Raoul concerned that Christine's affiliation with this so-called phantom might jeopardize them both. His older brother, Comte Philippe de Chagny, had disapproved of Christine from the start. Only a week ago, Philippe had bluntly said that the idea of turning a 'dalliance' with an opera singer into a proposal of marriage would not be tolerated, threatening to cut off Raoul's allowance at any hint of scandal.

"I will not stand for the Chagny name being dragged through the mud," Philippe had declared. "Bed the doxy and be done with it, but do not think to sully our noble name by marrying her."

-0-0-0-

The stench inside the jail made Raoul instantly regret his acquiescence. He coughed and held a linen handkerchief under his nose as he guided Christine by the arm, holding onto her proprietarily. Christine, for her part, was appalled at what she saw.

Normally fastidious about himself, Erik was sitting on the floor, dirty and unkempt. She gasped audibly as she took note of the extent of his injuries. He was unmasked, revealing not only his disfigurements but also the many cuts and bruises his face bore. His deformed nose was more crooked than ever, and looked as if it had been broken, while his eyes were bloodshot. He cradled his left arm awkwardly, as if it pained him, and the clothes he wore, torn and stained with blood and dirt, were the same ones he'd had worn the night of the opera, though his jacket was missing.

She thought back to that night, imagining the mob attacking him, conjuring up visions that were almost more than she could bear, but she forced herself to continue looking. That was when she saw the abrasions circling his wrists, and the awful discolorations around his neck. Though the newspaper accounts said that the mysterious person known only as the Phantom of the Opera had been rescued from the mob, nothing had been mentioned that would have led her to suspect that he had been so poorly treated! Her stomach clenched and a bitter taste filled her mouth as she fought off waves of nausea.

"I want to go _in_ there and talk to him," she said to the jailer. The man looked to Raoul for permission. "Monsieur de Chagny is my friend," she said. "_Not _my parent and certainly not my husband. I do _not _need his permission to visit my teacher." Raoul's earlier attempt to lay down the law still stung, and she was not about to allow him to overstep his authority over her, regardless of how good were his intentions.

"It's highly irregular," the jailer said to her. "But…," he paused and turned his head to give Erik a closer look. "He's been a good gentleman ever since he was brought in, and it's not as if you'll be alone. I'll keep the door unlocked and my gun on him, just in case." He patted himself and realized that he didn't have a gun, since jailers were not allowed to carry weapons other than a billy club. "Well, I'll just…just keep an eye on him," he mumbled and, taking the key ring from his belt, unlocked the cell door.

She stepped into the small room, expecting a greeting or at least a response of some sort, and was disconcerted when she got—nothing. It was as if Erik was unaware of her presence. No nod. Nothing, his eyes remaining downcast. Christine ignored the smells that assailed her nose—old food, an unemptied chamber pot, body odor, and a vile stench that brought back memories of her father's sick room. She spied the small stool and took a seat. It was no good. The stool was too far away from him. She came forward and knelt in front of him, wanting him to see that she was not thrown off by his face.

"Maestro," she said softly, her hand reaching out and gently resting her fingertips against his bruised cheek. When he didn't answer, she said his name. "Erik. Erik? What have they done to you?"

He tipped his head up ever so slightly, just enough so that he could look into her eyes. He took her hand in his and gently removed it from his face. "No," he said almost in a whisper, his voice hoarse and raspy. "You shouldn't be here." He dropped her hand into her lap, then grimaced in pain and cradled his left arm.

"Christine," Raoul called out, alarmed at the Phantom's movements. "Be careful! Don't get too close to him." He stepped nearer to her, ready to pull her to safety if the monster made another move.

She ignored Raoul and scooted next to Erik, needing to be near him. He had comforted her countless times during the past. Now it was her turn to repay his kindness. "Erik, I had to come. I had to see you, to talk to you. To explain." She spoke softly, reassuringly. "To apologize."

Slowly, he shook his head. Once again, he found himself filled with regret and sorrow. She truly was an angel of mercy, taking pity on him. "Go," he said, barely able to speak, but whether from the pain in his throat or the emotions that were choking him, he could not tell. "You owe me no apology. Leave me. And never come back."

Christine eyes welled with unshed tears. His rejection of her hurt, though it was easy to see that Erik was grieving, perhaps because of his confinement and his injuries. She knew his future was grim, and in that moment, all she wanted to do was offer him comfort and understanding. "You don't know what you're saying."

He tried to smile at her, to reassure her, but it was a pathetic attempt. "I've never been more certain of anything in my life." He frowned as he looked up at Raoul. "You were supposed to take her away, to protect her," he said as loud as his damaged voice would permit. "What do you mean, dragging her here like this? Wanted a final gawk at the monster, did you? Well, go ahead! Feast your eyes on my accursed ugliness, and then be done with it!" He leaned back and rested his head against the wall, the effort to shout costing him dearly.

Christine wasn't easily put off by Erik's bluster, and it pained her to hear him struggle. She worried about his beautiful voice and wondered what had happened, knowing deep inside that he was hurting—not just physically, but emotionally—and that lashing out was the only way he could express himself. Gently, she touched his hand.

"I know this is not like you," she said, referring to his disheveled state. "I would like to bring you some decent food, maybe some fresh clothes."

"Why are you doing this?" he whispered, and she had to strain to hear him.

"Because I care." Her eyes rested on his bandaged left arm. "You're…hurt," she said, and realized that this was where the smell was coming from. Panic rose in a flash. What if the wound were gangrenous?

He sat up and lifted his good shoulder, then let it drop. "It's nothing," he mouthed.

"That is not true. I saw you grimace with pain when you tried to move your arm."

"It's nothing, I tell you. Just a cut. Besides, what does it matter?" He did not say the rest. _What does it matter if I'm only to be executed in another week or two?_ But the last thing he wanted to do was to hurt her again. For some reason, she had it in her head to help him. Well, perhaps he should let her. It was a small thing, and if it made her feel better, then he could look upon it as recompense for the wrongs he had committed against her.

"It…it is a little sore," he admitted. "It will pass."

"It would be easier for me to look at it if you were sitting on the cot. May I?" she asked, offering him a hand up. He quietly acquiesced and, once she got him seated, carefully unwrapped the bandage. Beneath were the remnants of a torn, bloodstained sleeve, and under those, an angry looking wound that had been carelessly stitched. The skin was red and hot to the touch, and ugly yellow matter oozed from the edges, confirming her fears of sepsis. The lightest touch caused Erik to wince.

"A doctor needs to look at this. It appears to be infected." She brushed a cooling hand across his mangled forehead. "And you are feverish, too. You must lie down," she said, and helped him to lie down, wrapping the ragged blanket around him. Then she walked over to Raoul.

"He needs medical attention! You must send for a doctor at once!"

"Christine, what has come over you? He's in the care of the authorities; if he needs aid, then it is up to his keepers to secure it." He turned to the jailer. "Isn't that so?" he asked, looking for support.

The other man shrugged. "Not always," he mumbled. "Sometimes…well, most times, the prisoners' families or friends have a doctor brought in."

Christine froze. Compassion. That was what he had asked for that night. His words echoed in her head: _The world showed no compassion to me._ She forced herself to take a deep breath. No, now was not the time to break down in tears. Erik needed help. He needed _her _help.

She turned to Raoul. "Please," she pleaded. "Show some compassion!"

She and Raoul stared at each other for several seconds; then he finally relented.

"Very well," he said. "We won't make him a martyr. But step away from the cell."

"He needs clean clothes."

"What? Am I now the man's tailor, too?" Raoul paused, and then admitted, "At least he'll smell better, but you are coming with me."

She looked back at Erik; remembered the vacant expression on his face. It was as if she and Raoul were worlds apart. "No, I am staying here. He needs me."

"What the…? Oh, all right, but you." he said to the guard, "I want you to keep an eye on her and make sure she doesn't do something foolish," considering the possibility that Philippe might be right, that it would be better to distance himself from Christine — at least until justice had been served, and this _fraud_ was only a memory.

Christine bristled at his last remark and glared at Raoul, wondering what it was she had ever seen in him.

-0-0-0-


	4. Chapter 4

**To Be Loved  
By HDKingsbury & MadLizzy**

**  
Chapter 4**

Soon after Raoul left, Erik closed his eyes. His breathing became slow and even, and Christine assumed he was either sleeping or he was slipping in and out of consciousness. She rinsed a dirty rag with some of the drinking water kept in the wooden pail, and pressed it against Erik's head. Definitely, a fever, she fretted, as her brow knit with worry.

Noise and a flurry of activity soon alerted her to Raoul's return. True to his word, he'd secured the services of a physician. Wealth and prestige had its power, and the doctor would have been a fool to refuse to assist the Vicomte de Chagny—even it if did require a visit to the city jail to treat the most notorious prisoner in Paris.

The doctor, Monsieur Rousseau, was a middle-aged man with intelligent eyes and a careworn face. He was of average height, which meant that if Erik had stood up, he would have towered nearly a foot over the good doctor. But Erik did not stand; rather, he remained lying on the cot, apparently oblivious to the activities around him.

Christine had been bustling about the tiny cell, taking charge like a mother hen. Raoul had brought the other supplies that Christine had ordered as well, and sitting on the stool was a neat pile of clean clothes. There were two sets—one to wear now, and a second for later. She had also persuaded the jailer to bring a basin of warm water, a bar of soap and a towel, and had even managed to convince the man that it would be safe to remove the leg shackle.

"So he can wash properly and change his clothes," she said, assuming a no-nonsense attitude. The guard gave her a perplexed look, and even Christine had to admit that this new take-charge personality was not like her at all. "Oh, don't look at me askance! He's not going anywhere," she admonished. "He can barely move."

Reluctantly, the other man agreed. "If he runs off, I'll be holding you responsible," he said, removing the chain. "Once he's washed and changed, it goes back on."

She could only roll her eyes.

"Christine?" It was Raoul. Now, what did he want? "Why don't we step out here?" He was pointing to the outer office.

"Whatever for?"

He nodded towards the cell and Erik. "To give the man some privacy while he is…you know…washing and changing clothes."

"Oh!" She blushed and followed Raoul out of the room, where the two of them waited until the doctor came to talk to them.

-0-0-0-

Rousseau had seen his share of cadavers during the war years and throughout his training, but he'd never seen a man who looked like a living, breathing corpse before this day. He was no stranger to unwashed, unkempt patients, either, but this was the first time he had ever been summoned to a prison. Had it not been for the Vicomte de Chagny, he would never have agreed to attend the man accused of abducting the beautiful young singer from the stage of the Paris opera. Why, all of Paris was talking about it! But it wouldn't do to turn away the Vicomte. His family was powerful and influential. Instead, he'd curry their favor by treating this man, even if it meant risking his own neck.

As he took stock of the man before him, the scientific part of his mind was curious as to how Erik managed in spite of such horrendous injuries. His face and the entire right side of his head appeared to have been abraded; the tangle of scar tissue from old wounds confused the issue. Perhaps it would be better if the man never woke up at all, but slipped gently away into the Hereafter. He took note of the evidence of battery, from the shattered nose to the swollen, twisted lip, and lingered over the rope burns on Erik's throat. How any man could survive such treatment was beyond him. The vicomte had warned him of the ghoulish appearance of the prisoner, but nothing could have fully prepared him for the shock, the realization that a large portion of the damage that lay before him was not inflicted by the mob, but was congenital. His mind reeled with the thought of a woman giving birth to such a creature, recoiled from the notion of presenting a monstrous newborn to any woman.

As if this weren't enough, he saw the wound to Erik's arm.

Dried blood on the rent shirtsleeve had concealed the slash that extended from Erik's shoulder to his elbow. The patient stirred, his eyelids fluttering, as he slowly became aware of another person's presence in the cell.

"Christine," Erik muttered, as he gradually regained consciousness.

The doctor cleared his throat. His patient was in no condition to put up a fight, but nonetheless he glanced nervously at the jailer who stood watch outside the cell. "My name is Bernard Rousseau," he said gruffly to the injured man. "I'm a physician. I'm going to take a look at your wounds and see if anything can be done to help you."

Erik tried to move away from him, but the effort was too dear. "I didn't ask you to come here."

This wasn't going to be easy. "Yet here I am, nevertheless. Now, that arm needs tending. I'm going to give you something for pain, so I can clean out the wound."

Softly, quietly, Erik responded in a grim monotone. "Why bother?"

"The wound is…putrid. I must remove the stitches and clean out the infection." When Erik didn't respond, he continued. "It's going to be uncomfortable." He paused, and then his real worry slipped out. "A normal man couldn't stand the pain." Was his patient grinning, or sneering? The doctor couldn't tell. Perhaps he should lash the man down, to keep from being injured in case he fought back as the wound was being debrided.

"I don't want your potions. The pain keeps me…clear-headed." He forced a wry grin. "I won't hurt you, if that's what you're wondering. It isn't my habit to harm a man who's trying to help me."

True to his word, Erik barely flinched as the doctor set to work. "That's unnatural!" the physician exclaimed, while he proceeded with grim determination to finish the job as quickly as possible.

-0-0-0-

Raoul waited with Christine in the vestibule outside the prison ward, pacing the floor in frustration. He'd never understand what it was that compelled Christine to be sympathetic to the plight of a man such as this Erik, who, at best, would spend the remainder of his days in an asylum for the criminally insane. He fumed with frustration, puffing himself up like a popinjay. "He isn't human, I tell you. I can't understand why you are wasting your time on an animal like him, instead of letting me take you for a ride in the Bois as I had offered."

She regarded him sullenly. He's more of a man than you'll ever be, she thought, and then reproached herself for thinking badly of the man who had brought a doctor and clean clothing for her friend. Her friend…. Where did that come from?

"Besides, it doesn't look right for a…a lady to associate herself with such affairs. What would people think if they found out you were visiting him here, in jail? What would they say?" He knew what they'd think, all right: that the papers were correct, that Christine had been…compromised…but he didn't dare say it. Once more Philippe's livid proclamation rang in his ears.

"I really don't care," she snapped. "I have never based my behavior on what other people thought of me. My father taught me to follow my conscience, to stand on my own two feet, and I intend to do so." Her eyes flashed angrily. "Raoul, why don't you leave, if you don't wish to be here? I'll manage without you."

"But Christine…I can't do that! How would you find your way home?"

"I assure you, I can find my own way. I've been looking after myself for years and I don't need anyone's help." She sighed, allowing herself time to get her emotions under control. "You've been wonderful, a true friend, but now I must really insist that you leave…this place."

The clank of metal alerted them to the opening of the cell door. The doctor appeared tired and drawn, as though his patient's ordeal had been his own. He was shaking his head as he approached. "He didn't let me finish," he told them. "He said I should leave—and that you should, too."

Christine placed her hand on his arm lightly. "How bad is it, doctor?" She watched him as he sat down heavily in a nearby chair, dropping his bag on the floor by his feet.

"He's got a number of lacerations, abrasions, hematomas, and contusions. His ribs are bruised, and I believe that at least one is cracked. His left hand is broken. Someone gave him a good kicking, I suspect." He rubbed his eyes. "I cleaned the wound on his arm as best I could, under the circumstances, and I've set the bones in his hand. His lungs are congested, and he has a low fever. It may be the start of pneumonia. I'd prescribe a poultice, but I'm afraid it will do no good under the circumstances with no one to change it. In addition to all this, he's blind in his right eye." He noticed Christine's pallor. "Didn't you know? I thought it was obvious." He tapped the orbit of his own eye. "That's why it's such an unnatural color. It's useless."

The young woman, strong and defiant only moments earlier, felt faint. She put a hand to her forehead, and Raoul led her to the settee across from the doctor.

"What else?" Raoul prodded. "Go on. You have something to say."

Rousseau appeared pensive. "It's his mind. He has...no will to live. He's disconsolate. He doesn't care what happens to him."

de Chagny pounded a fist into his palm. "He should burn in Hell for all he's done!"

"I think he is already in Hell," the doctor replied. He had a faraway look in his eyes, and spoke with compassion. "He's condemned himself."

Christine struggled to speak, but her mouth was dry and tasted of the dusty room. "But what are those marks on his neck?"

"Why, my dear," the doctor said, surprised at her ignorance, "the mob tried to hang him!"

She collapsed against the back of the bench and put her head in her hands, rocking herself like a small child. "Horror, horror, horror!" she whispered.

The doctor continued sotto voce, speaking directly to Raoul. "I'm afraid his vocal cords have been damaged—perhaps permanently."

Christine gasped. "No! You must be mistaken!"

"Most men would be begging for morphia, but not him. I suppose he's used to suffering, the poor devil. The scars on his body indicate he's been whipped long ago...and more."

The vicomte swallowed hard. Even he had been affected by the doctor's description. "What do you mean by that?"

"I believe he's been tortured, and judging by the scars, on more than one occasion."

Ever earnest, ever stalwart, Raoul held Christine's hand as she wept. "Did he explain these scars? Perhaps he earned them, as a penalty for previous crimes."

"He said it was none of my concern."

"Oh! What kind of life has he known?" the young woman asked, casting her glance heavenward.

"Pain. Suffering. Being an outcast. It's enough to have driven any man out of his mind."

Raoul reacted quickly. "Aha!" he exclaimed. "Then you believe he is insane!

The doctor shook his head sadly. "Not insane...but terribly, terribly broken. No wonder he's been in hiding, using manipulation and skill to get what he needed...and wanted."

An ugly scoff escaped the young aristocrat. "Don't make excuses for him!"

"Not excuses," the physician uttered. "Just...understanding." He picked up his bag, and left the two of them with brief instructions as to Erik's care. "I'll be back tomorrow, to check in on him," he said. He put two fingers to his temple and bid them good day.

-0-0-0-

Christine entered the cell once again, where Erik was lying on the cot with his eyes closed. There was a fresh blanket covering him, and the doctor had managed to get him a pillow as well. The room smelled perceptibly cleaner, and Erik had been bathed and shaved. His left arm was in a sling, and he was situated in such a way that it was the normal side of his face, pale and drawn, that she saw first.

The doctor had said that he might be sleeping, that he'd finally been able to persuade Erik to take the pain medicine and allow himself to get some much-needed rest. He was so still that if it hadn't been for the rise and fall of his chest, she might have thought him dead. She took a few steps closer and was able to see the damaged side of his face. Once again, she found herself shrinking back involuntarily.

_You fool. Is his face so bad that even now, you cannot look upon it without fear and loathing? _

She forced herself to look, ashamed of herself. It really wasn't so bad, she thought. A person could get used to seeing him without a mask. This time, instead of feeling revulsion, her heart went out to him. She was beginning to understand how wretched his life had been, forced to hide from society because of his face, to always be an outcast, a pariah. If she, who knew his hideous appearance could still react as she had, how could she expect others to do differently? Poor man, to be so cursed. If only he had been born normal, none of this would have happened. If only. If only…

"Erik?" she called softly, then cringed. Here the man was, probably getting the first sleep he'd had in days, and she was trying to wake him. From his lack of response, she doubted he heard her. She waited a few seconds and opened her mouth to say his name again, but reconsidered. Better to let him rest. She was ready to leave when his eyes fluttered open.

"Christine?" he asked, his mind clouded by drugs and pain. Having his wound cleaned had been some of the most excruciating pain he'd ever endured. It had taken every ounce of willpower to keep from screaming while the doctor did his job. He blinked several times, trying to get his eyes to focus, but it was impossible. All he wanted to do right now was sleep. "You…you should not be here," he managed to say.

Christine surprised him by smiling. It was a beautiful smile that radiated the goodness within her. "I came to talk to you. That is, if you're feeling up to it. The doctor told us about your injuries and that you've taken some medicine." She hesitated. "If you'd prefer, I can come back another time."

The dear, sweet angel. She wanted to talk to him? After how he had treated her? Erik tried to smile, but the effort was too much. "I…thank you for your kindness but…you belong with your young man."

Her smile turned into a frown. "Raoul is _not _my young man, and I do _not_ belong to him. Or to anyone else."

"My apologies, Mademoiselle," Erik managed to rasp out. "I only meant…"

She came over to him and carefully sat on the edge of the cot, concern on her face. "Forgive me, Erik. I didn't mean to snap at you like that. It's only that"—she paused to find the right words—"everyone thinks they know what is best for me, yet no one has ever asked _me _what _I _wanted."

"And what do you want?"

"Right now? I want to help you."

"Christine, it's not…proper for young ladies to have private conversations with their abductors."

"But you…oh. Yes, I suppose that is how the others see it."

Her comment puzzled him. "And you? You don't? I'm afraid I don't understand."

Her brows knit as she puzzled over what she meant. "I'm not sure I understand, either. I've explained to the detective that I went with you willingly, but he says they are refusing to drop the charges! Abduction with intent to defile! Of all the absurdity…." She stopped, a pained look on her face.

That wasn't what had happened, and she knew it. He _had _taken her against her will, though she hadn't screamed out. He _had _threatened her…and de Chagny, who had come charging after them like some knight on a holy crusade. So why was she telling him differently?

"I've made a mess, haven't I? I'm sorry, Erik. So very sorry."

This sudden about face troubled Erik. He wanted to demand that she explain herself, but he saw that her eyes were welling with tears. He raised his uninjured arm and reached out to gently brush aside a tear with his thumb. "You mustn't cry for me, Christine. You've done nothing for which you need to apologize."

"But I have! I…I abused your trust."

"And I abused yours. Please, Christine; you don't belong here with a criminal like me. It's…it's not that I don't appreciate what you've done. On the contrary, you've…you've saved me."

"I have?"

He saw the worried look on her face. How could he explain this to her, that by her actions, she had brought him back from the brink of madness and kept him from making a terrible mistake. "Yes, you have. Now, I can go to my Maker in peace."

She became agitated. "No! No, you…you don't know what you're talking about. Erik, what are you saying?"

"Don't you? I'm a condemned man, Christine."

"But…there hasn't even been a trial."

"A formality. Nothing more."

"Don't you want to live?"

He didn't answer her. He couldn't answer her, couldn't tell her that without her, his life was not worth living. But he could not put such a burden upon her.

"Answer me, Erik. Don't you?"

"Please, Christine. You should…go." He closed his eyes. "Please," he murmured before sleep overcame him.

Christine knew he was shutting her out. That he was giving up. She sat by his side for several more minutes, and would not leave until she was certain he was asleep.

-0-0-0-

Raoul entered the room. "Can we leave now?" He'd been growing impatient, waiting in the vestibule for Christine, wondering what she could possibly have been doing all this time with…_him_.

She ignored the sarcasm in his voice. "In a moment," she said, and turned to the jailer. "He's very sick," she said, referring to Erik. "I'm concerned that nobody will check on him and send for a doctor should he need one."

The jailer, a youngish man with sandy hair and a freckled face, assured her that the prisoner would get proper care. "He's not a bad sort, not really," he said. "As prisoners go, that is. He ain't caused any trouble and is usually quiet as a mouse. Minds his Ps and Qs, and don't complain. And after a while, you don't really notice his looks. Don't fret, Miss. I'm on duty tonight; I'll check on him regularly." He seemed proud of himself for making a commitment that would set this lovely young woman's mind at ease.

Raoul huffed. What the hell was she thinking? Then she made matters worse by opening her reticule and offering to pay for the Phantom's care.

"For your troubles," she said to the jailer, offering him some coins.

The young man politely declined. "You keep 'em," he said. He gazed back at the sleeping form of Erik. "Y'know, I kinda feel sorry for him. Who knows what any of us woulda done if we'd been born like that? Yes, I can feel sorry for him."

Raoul frowned. He'd be damned if he would.

-0-0-0-

**Authors' Note: **Don't forget to make your authors very happy by leaving a review. *grin*


	5. Chapter 5

**To Be Loved  
By HDKingsbury & MadLizzy**

**  
Chapter 5**

The ride home was interminably long. Christine would have preferred walking, regardless that it would have been a goodly distance. A brisk walk was just what she needed to clear the cobwebs from her head and allow her to think straight, because at the moment, she had an awful lot on her mind. But Raoul, ever the gentleman, had arranged for his brougham to be waiting for them. It would have been unpardonably rude to refuse the offer, and now Christine was left sitting next to Raoul, keeping her doubts to herself. It would never do to talk about them, as he had already made his feelings on the subject of helping Erik perfectly clear.

"You're awfully quiet," he said after several minutes of awkward silence.

"It's nothing," she said, turning her head so that she faced the small window. The last thing she wanted was for him to see that she was on the verge of crying. She felt rather than saw as he reached over and took her hand into his.

"Please, Christine. It troubles me to see you so upset. This is my fault. If I had not let you go to see him today—"

She took a deep breath, forcing herself to be patient. He meant well, did Raoul. He just did not understand. "It is not your fault, and if you remember, I did not ask your permission to visit my teacher."

"Yes. Yes, of course," he said placatingly, causing her to grit her teeth. "I only meant that I was concerned that your reaction would be something like this. You are too kind hearted, Christine. That man took advantage of your inexperience, your trust, but still you feel it is your duty to help him."

She turned back to look him in the face. "Isn't that what we are taught, Raoul? To turn the other cheek? To forgive those who trespass against us?"

He smiled indulgently. "Really, Christine. This is hardly the time to have a discussion on theology."

_If not now, then when_, she thought, but decided not to provoke an argument. She wasn't in the mood for one.

Their recent ordeal had changed them both. Christine was not in love with Erik, she told herself, even though that is what Raoul was beginning to suspect, but she did feel sorry for the man. As for Raoul? She cared for him, but lately it was more as a friend and not a lover or prospective husband. She sighed. Nothing would have pleased her more than to return to the way things were, before Erik entered the picture. Life had been so much easier then. She had known what she wanted, and what was expected of her. There had been no hard decisions, no ambiguous shades of gray to consider.

"I must help him," she said at last. "I'm not sure I can explain it so that you will understand. To tell you the truth, I am not sure myself. I only know that this is what I must do."

That, it turned out, was the wrong thing to say.

"This is madness, Christine!" he blurted out. "How can you even think of helping that…that filthy troll?"

She cowered inwardly at the vehemence of his words as he forced himself to control his temper, which from the redness of his complexion was on the verge of breaking. He must have noticed her draw back, because when he spoke next, his voice was calmer.

"You're overwrought, confused. What you need is to rest," he said sympathetically.

Then, in the blink of an eye, his expression changed and his face broke into a smile as an idea came to him. "I know! Let's take a trip to Perros, and forget this foolish talk. Remember the beach house where we played as children? We could go there tomorrow, and leave all this behind."

"We aren't children any more," Christine said, sadness in her voice. "We can never go back to Perros. We are not the wide-eyed innocents we once were."

She watched Raoul deflate with disappointment and felt as if a gaping chasm had opened between them. It was as if something had died between them, and the rest of the ride was made in icy silence. When the brougham pulled up in front of her apartment, she quickly scrambled out before Raoul could prevent her. "Thank you, Raoul," she said before hurrying off. "I know you have only my best interests at heart." Then she went inside, not wanting to prolong their conversation any further.

The understanding that they could never go back to the way things were was haunting her.

-0-0-0-

Several days later, Christine sat in her room, pondering her situation. She would have loved to quit the opera, but room and board did not grow on trees, and neither did meals. Mme Moreau was kind, but she was nobody's fool. If Christine were unable to pay her weekly rent, the landlady would have no recourse but to turn her out onto the street. This had left Christine with two choices. Either she could continue at the opera house, earning her keep, or she could marry Raoul and become dependent upon him.

The latter was not as appealing as it once might have been. Over the past year, since coming out of the Conservatory and earning her own way in the world, Christine had discovered the pleasures of personal independence and she was in no mood to give that up. This left her with the only other choice—swallowing her pride and remaining at the opera house. At least for now. And once again, she found herself playing second fiddle to Carlotta.

If the managers had had their way, they would have thrown Carlotta out on her ear without blinking an eyelash and replaced the Italian spitfire with Christine. After all, their reasoning had gone, scandal was what brought in the crowds, and what better scandal was there than Mlle. Daaé's involvement with the Opera Ghost as well as her close association with that very handsome—and wealthy—patron of the arts, the Vicomte de Chagny? They quickly learned, however, that Carlotta was not so easily displaced. Over the years, the woman had cultivated many friends in high places, as the saying went, and these friends were not opposed to using their leverage on her behalf. And that was how Christine found herself once again in minor supporting roles.

But ensuring her status as resident diva was not good enough for La Carlotta. These days, still smarting at having been upstaged by this little ingénue with a shady past, she worked hard to make life miserable for her rival, a so-called "innocent" who consorted with masked men and who allowed herself to be carried off to who knew where!

What did it matter if the public had heard Mlle Daaé sing? Who cared if they had been entranced by the beauty and clarity of her voice? Carlotta let it be known that that the name of Christine Daaé was anathema, and after crossing a few palms with silver, the young chit's name quickly disappeared from the major newspapers—at least in those columns dealing with the opera. Out of sight, out of mind was how Carlotta looked at it. If the only publicity the little toad got was of the negative sort—having her name dragged through the mud for her involvement in the sordid Opera Ghost affair—then her fame would be short-lived and her name quickly forgotten.

From the youngest of the ballet rats to the senior-most scene changers, it had been all anybody could talk about at the opera house. Christine lost track of how many times someone approached her, clucking sympathetically and commiserating with her, saying how deplorable the situation was. Christine, on her part, shrugged it all off and, unfortunately for the gossip mongers, replied that it was not worth getting upset over. Truth to tell, being out of the limelight was fine with the young singer because as much as she hated to admit it, her heart was no longer in singing. Even the director and other members of the company were beginning to notice that though she continued to sing with technical correctness, her voice had no heart, no soul.

After an especially difficult afternoon that saw La Carlotta once again throw a temper tantrum and upset everyone's day, Christine had come home and shut herself in her room. She did not want to see or talk to anyone. Her head was pounding—whether from the tension she'd felt all day, or from Carlotta's screeching, she wasn't sure—and all she wanted was to be left alone. She was surprised, then, when the door to her room opened and Mme Moreau entered, bringing with her a supper tray.

"You didn't come to supper with the rest so I brought you something to eat," said the landlady, fussing about like a mother hen, reminding Christine of how much she missed her foster mother, who had died last spring. "Is something wrong?"

Christine took the tray and set it on the table. "Thank you. No, nothing is wrong. I just had a difficult day."

"It's that Carlotta woman again, isn't it? Oh, you don't have to tell me. I know all about La Carlotta. Her vanity was pricked ever since you took her place the night of the gala. Anyone with half an ear can hear that you are a much better singer. But you can't fool me. It isn't only her. I'm not blind you know," she said, wagging her finger and eyeing Christine suspiciously. Mme Moreau may have been well meaning in her intentions, but she was still a busybody. "You haven't been yourself since that night. Did something happen that you haven't told anyone? If you wish to talk about it, you know you can trust me not to say anything. You know, woman to woman."

Christine blushed, knowing what the landlady was insinuating. "It's nothing at all like that, I assure you. It's only that, I have a friend who is in trouble."

A puzzled frown creased the landlady's forehead. "A lady friend? One of the ballet rats? No? Oh, let me guess. Is it that nice young man you've been seeing? A girl could do a lot worse, you know. And a vicomte! What a catch that would be!"

"No, it's not Raoul. It's a friend. An old friend. I only learned the other day—" But the frantic ringing of the doorbell interrupted, and she didn't finish what she'd started to say. Whoever it was, they were certainly impatient. When no one answered right away, the person outside rang again, and again.

Mme Moreau rolled her eyes at the disruption. "Pardon me, but I'd better go see who it is before they break the bell off." A few minutes later, she returned.

"It's someone for you," she said to Christine. "There's a lady downstairs asking to see you."

"Did she give her name?

"Says her name is Giry, from the opera house."

Christine thanked the landlady and headed down to the parlor where all guests were shown, and was surprised to find that is was Mme Giry sitting in one of the chairs, waiting for her. When the landlady said the name Giry, Christine had thought it was Meg who'd come to visit. Seeing the austere ballet mistress left Christine uncomfortable. Though she and Meg had been on friendly terms since she came to the opera house, she had never warmed up to the mother, a grave and stern woman who habitually dressed in black.

"Good evening, Madame," she said politely, taking a seat across from the older woman.

"And to you, Mademoiselle," Mme Giry replied with a polite nod of her head. "I do not believe in beating around the bush and shall come straight to the point. Have you been to see _him?"_

The question startled Christine. "Him…who?"

"Don't play coy with me, young lady. You know who I'm talking about—Erik."

Christine swallowed hard. Mme Giry, it seemed, knew more about what happened the night of the disaster than she had been letting on, leaving Christine to wonder exactly what the ballet mistress had to do with any of this. She decided that it would be best to proceed with caution.

"I'm not sure it would be proper for me to visit him. He is a criminal, Madame, awaiting trial," she said, flinching inside at the recognition that she was mimicking Raoul's words to her earlier.

Mme Giry smiled suspiciously, reminding Christine of the cat that swallowed the canary. "Very well. If you do not wish to admit to having seen him, that is your business. But do you want to see him hanged?"

Christine recalled all too well the terrible injuries Erik had suffered at the hands of the mob. Again, she wondered, what did this woman want?

"I do not wish to see anyone suffer unnecessarily, Madame, but what makes you think that I have an interest in him? He abducted me, if you recall."

"That's not what I've heard from that detective, Milfroid. According to him, you said you went willingly."

Christine blanched, but before she could reply, Mme Giry went on.

"Erik needs your help. Oh, don't bother denying that you've seen him since the night of _Don Juan Triumphant_. I know that you have, not that I can blame you. That is why I came here tonight. We both know that, as things stand now, he has little chance of getting out of this mess with his skin intact. After all that he has done for you, are you telling me you have no feeling, no care what happens to him? He gave you your voice. Is this how you repay your teacher?"

Mme Giry's accusations struck home, hitting a raw nerve.

_Isn't this what you've been telling yourself?_

She found her voice and answered timidly. "What would you have me do?"

"Erik needs an attorney, someone who will at least see that he gets a fair trial."

"But, I don't know any attorneys."

"Maybe not, but I do. Do you remember reading in the newspapers about Édouard Bruguière, who is always championing the poor and the oppressed? A bit of a crusader, I think."

"I've never heard of him," Christine admitted sheepishly.

"There's no reason for you to have—up until now. What I need is for you to go to him. Ask him to represent Erik. The man loves a challenge, and the more difficult, the better."

"Why don't you go, Madame?"

"You are an angel, child. If anyone can convince this man to defend Erik, it is you. After all, you are the supposed victim. If you plead Erik's case, why then, who can convict him? And when you go to see Bruguière, give him this." She handed Christine a small package, wrapped in plain brown paper and tied with string. "Take it; it won't bite. But don't open it. Give it to Bruguière if he decides to take the case. If not, bring it back to me."

"And then what?"

Mme Giry smiled enigmatically. "Why, then, we shall see."

-0-0-0-

The small package that Mme Giry had entrusted to her seemed to grow heavier and heavier as she made her way across town. During the long walk to Bruguière's offices, Christine asked herself a hundred times why she was further involving herself in Erik's problems. Reason dictated that she should be putting as much distance between herself and the "madman" as possible, and she felt a pang of conscience when she imagined how Raoul would react once the news reached him. Preoccupied with thought and not watching where she was walking, she caught her heel in a crack in the sidewalk and twisted her ankle painfully. She knelt down to adjust her shoe, and noticed that the buckle had nearly become detached.

"Another souvenir for Erik's treasure box," she thought miserably, and cursed in her native language under her breath. "_Javul_."

She felt the heat rise in her cheeks as she recalled him standing on the grand staircase the night of the masquerade, dressed from head to toe in red velvet, Red Death personified. Had it really been only a few months since Erik thrust the score for his magnum opus towards her, and then vanished before her very eyes?

She stood up quickly and fumbled with the new ring Raoul had given her, a ring she wore on a chain around her neck as she had worn the other one, and found herself wondering what had become of the first one. Surely, Erik had not had time to hide it, not before the mob descended upon him. It was probably lost forever, stolen by the vigilantes, so Raoul had replaced it with an equally grand diamond. It was too large for her hand, she thought, as she slipped it onto the chain that Raoul offered her along with it. This time, he had not protested about a secret engagement.

"Besides," he said when he gave it to her, "this chain is strong and will not break."

The heat turned to anger, her frustration building to a fine crescendo, and her chin jutted out as she called upon the inner strength her father told her she could always count on. She tucked the chain and the ring inside her collar, while her own small voice niggled at the back of her mind and chided her: "I belong to no man."

Moments later, she was waiting in the outer office of Monsieur Édouard Bruguière. Bruguière's secretary, a wiry scrivener named Barthelbe, had been efficient but unwelcoming, frowning at the prospect of announcing the arrival of a young woman who was unaccompanied by either a chaperone or a guardian. His illustrious employer deserved better than a working-class clientele, no matter how poised and pretty this young woman was. With no small amount of trepidation, he tapped softly at the sanctum sanctorum and waited for his employer to grant him entrance.

Christine stirred in her seat as she heard a rude reply barked from within, presumably emanating from the man she had come to see.

-0-0-0-

**Authors' Note **A big thank you to everyone who has been adding our story to their alerts, posting reviews, and in general taking the time out of your own busy schedules to read TBL.


	6. Chapter 6

**To Be Loved  
by HDKingsbury & MadLizzy**

**  
Chapter 6**

Bruguière sat hunched at his desk, rifling through stacks of paper.

He wasn't an imposing figure of a man, being short of stature, with curly hair, beard and mustache that were more salt than pepper, and the morning light pouring through the window on his wooly gray hair wreathed his head like a halo. A long time sufferer from myopia, his spectacles hid bright eyes behind the gleaming lenses and even when wearing his them, he often found himself squinting. He had a great dislike for artifice and dressed for comfort rather than to impress, leaving fashion statements to the young society bucks. His suit, though of a high quality, had seen better days and was sorely in need of a brushing, while his shoes creaked for want of polish.

All in all, his appearance was quite easily forgotten, and that was fine by him. His humble demeanor often worked to his advantage, especially in the courtroom where his adversaries would underestimate him, learning only when it was too late that the shabby-looking man had a mind as brilliant as lightning.

"There is a woman asking to see you," Barthelbe announced, after he had closed the door firmly behind him.

"Tell her to go away," Bruguière muttered absentmindedly. "Can't you see that I'm too busy today to see anyone? Where is that deposition I requested—the one for the paperhanger, duPuis?" He poured over a pile of court documents, shuffling the stack hopelessly, until his secretary could stand it no more and pulled out the errant sheaf. Bruguière peered at him mirthlessly over his _pince nez_. "Thank you."

"I do not think she will take 'no' for an answer. This one, she may stay here all day, waiting for a moment of your time. She is stubborn. You can tell by the way she holds her chin," he added, tapping his own prominent jaw as proof.

"Is she pretty?" Bruguière snapped. "I have no time for ugly women today."

"Pretty enough," Barthelbe replied with a shrug of indifference. "Perhaps you've heard of her. She is Christine Daaé, the singer and she's here to see you about the affair at the opera."

"No doubt, she wants to sue the managers for failing to protect her from that anarchist who's been in all the papers, the one who attacked her." As an afterthought, he added as if out of habit, "Allegedly."

"You're probably right, but of course, she did not discuss the details of her business with me. Shall I show her in?"

Bruguière let the papers he was holding drop from his fingers. "Might as well. You've already interrupted me. I could use a pretty face to brighten up my day."

He sat back in his old leather chair, cracked and dry from years of use, and waited until the door opened again before standing up. He'd been steeled for gruffness, prepared to turn her away. Let some lawyer hungry to make a name for himself deal with the likes of her. He had no time for singers, and no time to involve himself in a sensational trial involving a lunatic. But there was something about this girl that intrigued him.

Perhaps it was the fact that she seemed diminutive in his office, standing as she was near the tall door, appearing slightly lost. Perhaps it was the hope that filled her wide, innocent eyes, even as her features betrayed worry and concern. Perhaps it was her smile. Yes, that was it—her smile. It made him feel the way a man should feel when a pretty girl smiles at him. Her strawberry blonde hair framed her heart-shaped face with a soft border of curls, making her green eyes appear startlingly clear. For a moment, he thought she could see right through his stiff façade and into his heart of hearts. Still, he was no sucker for punishment. Best to find out what she wanted, before her charm got the better of him. He cast aside pleasantries.

"Let's be quick about this, Mademoiselle. I know who you are—even heard you sing once." He was momentarily captivated by the memory of that night, when Christine Daaé made her debut. The clear, sweet sound of her voice echoed in his recollection and threatened to soften his hard-nosed demeanor. "However, I am a very busy man. You'll be better served by seeing Monsieur LeBreque down the street. His fees are very reasonable, and he'll serve you well. You may use my name if you wish. He'll get you a good settlement." He waved a hand at her dismissively and waited for her to leave.

Christine swayed on her feet, indecisive. The same determination that had carried her thus far would not let her leave yet, not without a hearing. She crossed the distance between the door and the desk, and planted herself firmly opposite the attorney.

"I am here on behalf of…a friend. I ask nothing for myself, Monsieur. I have heard you are a champion of _les miserables_, the ones Justice does not serve."

Bruguière allowed himself a small laugh. "And do you know such a man?"

"I do." She nodded guardedly. "Perhaps you have heard of him. I speak of Erik—the man accused of abducting me from the stage."

"Accused? Young lady, half of Paris saw him drag you away."

"They saw nothing of the sort."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Erik did not force me. He merely wished to speak with me, and I had…I had done something terrible. It was impossible for us to talk, right there on the stage—"

"—so he dragged you out of the spotlight, during the middle of a performance, so the two of you could be alone."

"It wasn't like that!" She put her fist to her forehead and struggled for the right words, the words that would convince him to listen to reason. "You have, no doubt, seen the papers, and you know what they say about him: That he wore a mask to disguise a hideous deformity, and that I tore the mask off his face and exposed him for all to see." She blinked away the tears that threatened to pour, and fought for composure.

"He was angry with you."

"No! No, Monsieur. He was devastated. He felt that I had betrayed him. And he was right. I did betray him, and in the worst way! Now, I must beg you to help me make it up to him."

Bruguière took a step backwards, chuckling at her expense. "Why, you're nothing more than an infatuated child who doesn't know her own mind."

She leaned forward and put her hands on his desk, temper flaring upon hearing the man's condescending appraisal. "I'll thank you not to underestimate me, Monsieur. I tell you, Erik is not guilty of abducting me."

He smirked infuriatingly, as he speculated about her motives. "Are you saying you went with him willingly? That, perhaps, you planned to abscond with the Phantom and the millions he swindled out of the opera house, that you are his partner in crime?"

"You cannot trick me into saying something that isn't true. Yes, I went with Erik willingly; as for the 'swindle' as you put it, I have proof that Erik was, in fact, a hired consultant and that he earned every penny of his salary." She opened Mme Giry's mysterious package, and fished out two ledgers bound in calfskin.

Bruguière sat down and examined the books carefully before pushing them aside with one finger. His expression indicated he was not the least bit interested in their contents. "And where did you get these?" he asked, stifling a yawn.

"Mme Giry, the ballet mistress, found them. She thought Erik's attorney might be able to use them in his defense." She sat in the chair in front of his desk, and noted that the attorney couldn't stop staring at the evidence she had handed him.

The attorney stroked his thick beard and leaned back in his chair, which protested with a mighty creak. "Tell me, why is this man so important to you?

She did not hesitate to answer. "He is my friend."

He searched her eyes, her demeanor, looking for telltale clues of deception or misdirection. After all, she was a trained actress. "A lucky man...."

She laughed disarmingly, and the pure, innocent sound of it made Bruguière close his eyes with sheer joy. Then, she added wistfully, "No. I am the lucky one, monsieur. Erik taught me how to sing. Without him, I'd still be in the chorus—if that."

He peered at her intently, probing, exploring, seeking a crack in what was sure to be deception on her part. "Indeed. One might say that you owe him a great deal. One might say that you are indebted to him."

The girl sighed wearily, and it made his heart heavy to hear it. She stared out the window, and when she spoke again, her voice was low and mystical.

"Have you ever been alone, without a friend in the world? Have you ever known what it was like to be hated, to be ridiculed? To be without a home, and to have no one to guide you? No? Well, I do. Erik saw something in me that made him come out of hiding. Who knows how long he had lived alone in the darkness beneath the opera, while above him was a world of beauty and art that he could never be a part of.... Erik risked everything on my behalf, and now he's lost it, and it's all because of me." She focused on Bruguière. Her green eyes glimmered with tears, and she held out a hand to him palm upwards, imploring him to understand. "You're right. I do owe him something. I owe him everything."

He had heard women beg for loved ones who were guilty of the most heinous crimes, had watched countless executions, and had seen more than his share of charlatans, but Christine's selfless plea struck a chord within him.

"Why do you have such faith in him? I've heard you are engaged to marry the Vicomte de Chagny. You risk everything by sticking up for this man who, even if he isn't guilty of abducting you, probably has a long list of other crimes he has gotten away with." He continued in a whisper to himself, "Or more to the point, why should I stick my neck out for him? If I defend him and lose, it will ruin my reputation."

"Oh, sir," Christine responded, daring to hope. Her smile warmed him through and through. "Don't think that way. Imagine instead, what if you defend him and win?"

-0-0-0-

Although he did not admit it to the young lady the day she called upon him, Attorney Édouard Bruguière was, in spite of any misgivings he might have had, fascinated at the prospect of defending the infamous Opera Ghost. He enjoyed taking on the so-called hopeless cases, often accepting them _pro bono_. He would have taken this Opera Ghost's case at no charge, too, simply because the challenge intrigued him. That he had been asked by a lovely young lady only sweetened the pot.

Spread out in front of him were assorted documents relating to this case. The pre-trail hearing was scheduled for next week. That left Bruguière only a few days to prepare his defense, and he had not even met his client. On top of that, he had received word that the prisoner did not want legal council. Nothing worse than a hostile client! No doubt, it was going to be a busy next few days.

Bruguière picked up a stack of papers and started to read the list of charges that were being leveled against his client. Apparently, the man had no last name, or none that he was willing to provide, and was called only Erik.

Bruguière tsked. This would never do. Surely, even if the man really was a ghost (which Bruguière knew not to be the case, for the simple reason that he did not believe in ghosts in particular or supernatural beings in general), he had a surname. Perhaps his disfigurement had something to do with situation; possibly, he had been disowned by his family. Well, time enough to discuss this when they met.

He went on to the next group of sheets, copies of statements from several of the witnesses, and was unable to keep from laughing out loud. Most of the statements were sheer poppycock. Apparently, in order to work at the opera house, one was required to be superstitious.

Bruguière laid the papers aside. This case was becoming more and more interesting!

Pulling out a legal tablet and pencil, he began outlining the case, as he understood it, and what might be the best defense. Most of the charges stemmed from incidents involving the alleged kidnapping of the young woman. What was her name again? Oh, that's right. Daaé, the up-and-coming star of the opera.

He remembered the expression on her face when she spoke of the defendant. If he didn't know better, Bruguière would wager that Mlle Daaé was secretly in love with this Erik fellow. Oh, she didn't have to say so, but he had seen it in her eyes. The budding diva had expressed genuine concern for the man she called Erik. A wide grin broke out on the attorney's face. No, there was no doubt whatsoever in his mind; Mlle Daaé was suffering from love of the most exquisite kind—a forbidden love.

An understanding of the situation was forming in his mind. Even without meeting him, the attorney suspected that his client, a most unfortunate man born with a repulsive face (according to these documents), was likewise in love with the soprano.

Perhaps that was it in a nutshell, a kind of beauty and the beast story. Two people, as different from each other as night from day, had been drawn to each other by music. They had been able to see beneath the surface and into each others' hearts. Of course, society being what it is, they had been forced to meet in secret. Yes, that must have been the way of it. Bruguière smiled again, because at heart, he was a hopeless romantic.

The clock on the mantel struck two. Time to leave, as he was supposed to meet his client in half an hour. This would be their first meeting, and it would hardly do to be late.

-0-0-0-

Daspit Amand grinned over his shoulder as he led the attorney to meet his infamous client for the first time. Bruguière had arrived at the jail late, having lingered in his office studying the evidence Christine had procured. By the time he had finished reading, it was long past the time when attorneys were normally granted access to their clients. A few coins in the guard's outstretched palm had opened literally doors.

"He's given us no trouble at all, sir," Daspit simpered, his rotten teeth and fetid breath sending a rank odor of garlic and cheap wine through the air. "None at all. Gentle as a lamb, with the proper persuasion —if you knows what I means. I don't coddle 'em, not like some of them other guards." He tapped his billy club against his leg and hooted at his own brand of humor. "But best have an empty stomach when you come to meet him! One look't him, and it'll turn inside out." He made childish motions with his hands and retching sounds, as it if that would dissuade Bruguière from his mission.

"That'll be enough," the lawyer shot back. "Save your theatrics for the tourists. I'm no stranger to prisons. Besides, every man deserves a fair trial. This is France."

"Don't say I didn't warn ya."

When they came to the end of the corridor, the jailer pounded on the metal door to Erik's cell with the butt of his wooden billy club, making a horrendous clanging noise that echoed in the narrow hallway. Then he stepped aside, allowing Bruguière a view of the prisoner and his cell through a small window barely wide enough to pass through food and water.

Even with the limited view, Bruguière could tell it was a dismal place, the ceiling hanging ominously low overhead. In the dim light, he thought for a moment that he saw an enormous, deadly spider waiting motionless in its trap for its prey. He shuddered and forced the thought from his mind. The creaking of the door on its rusty hinges let out an ear-splitting squeal as the jailer swung it open.

Drawing his wooden billy club from his belt, Daspit approached Erik cautiously and poked him gingerly with the crude weapon. When there was no response, the jailer snorted derisively.

"'e knows better 'n to mess with me." He waved to attorney, who had hesitated near the doorway. "C'mon in! He won't bite."

Bruguière cleared his throat. "Ahem. Pardon me for interrupting your…supper," he said, eyeing the untouched food that had been brought to the prisoner. Although it was peasant fare—simple nourishment that would sustain the body—it remained untouched.

Daspit eyed it hungrily and began to help himself.

"Take that outside, if you please," the counselor ordered. "I'd like to speak to my client alone."

Daspit grabbed the wooden plate and walked into the hallway, taking a seat on a stool outside the door, and wolfed down the food while the attorney studied his client.

In all this time, Erik had not stirred. The man was seated on the edge of his cot, staring listlessly at the wall, his head turned to the side in such a way that it was impossible to see his face. He was disheveled and unkempt. Clearly, he had made no effort to care for himself, although, given the obvious injuries, it was easy to see why. With no one to help him, he could hardly be expected to bathe or change his clothes, even with a clean change of clothing sitting in a pile on the stool.

Bruguière was tempted to hold a handkerchief over his nose, as the man seated before him reeked of the prison, bad air, spoiled food, and dried blood. Perhaps the prisoner had given up. After all, his situation was apparently hopeless. In short, it was exactly the kind of case Bruguière needed to shake him out of the doldrums of commonplace corporate intrigue.

"Monsieur," Bruguière attempted. "Shall we dispense with the small talk? You have been arrested on several serious charges, including two counts of attempted murder, kidnapping, blackmail, extortion, destruction of public property, and a myriad of other charges. I am here to offer you legal counsel."

Curiously, the attorney noted there was still no reaction from this supposed lunatic. He tried again, wondering how to break through to this shell of a man. Experience taught him that in such cases, it was best to address the deficient as if he were perfectly normal. It was reassuring, and allowed the other fellow the opportunity to speak candidly.

"We can discuss my fee later," he said with gentle humor. "Right now, I'd like to hear your side of the story."

It was no good. No matter what he said or did, Erik ignored him. Why, he might have been a fly on the wall for all his client cared! Bruguière's frustration mounted. He had to do something, anything to get this man to respond with some kind of emotion. What was wrong with the fool? Did he _want_ to die?

"Do you have any idea what it would do to that young woman who pleaded with me on your behalf? What's her name, Christianne?" he asked, deliberated mispronouncing her name.

Erik kept his eyes on the floor. "Christine," he answered dully.

"She doesn't want to see you swing on the gallows, or worse, watch as you are guillotined."

"Then keep her away," Erik said, refusing to rise to the bait. "Better yet, tell that young man of hers to take her away. That is what de Chagny was supposed to do—protect her. Protect her from—"

"—from you?"

_The Vicomte de Chagny?_

Bruguière grimaced. The de Chagny's influence might complicate the trial, and not necessarily to Erik's advantage. The citizens of France, and specially Parisians, had little regard for the nobility. This man's past was becoming more and more intriguing. What did the opera ghost have to do with one of France's oldest and most illustrious families? He pushed the question aside and kept pressing his advantage. Get the man to talk while he was so inclined.

"Funny. She didn't strike me as the sort who feels that she needs a vicomte to guard her or to guide her."

Erik laughed mirthlessly at the irony of the attorney's words.

"It is not as if he owns her—" the attorney continue. Finally, Bruguière got the reaction he was looking for as Erik's head snapped up angrily.

"She's marrying him, you dolt!"

Erik moved with lightning speed towards the attorney, a bony hand outstretched as if to grasp the other man by the throat. Bruguière raised his arms and covered his head defensively, expecting an attack. When it did not come, he dared to open his eyes, and was surprised to see the madman standing before him, looking for all the world as if his heart were breaking in two. He was bent over, clutching his stomach, his parody of a mouth opened in anguish.

Bruguière averted his eyes from the horror that stood before him. Half of his client's face was smooth and handsome; the other, something out of a nightmare. Was it a trick of the light, or was that flesh peeled away from the skull, hanging with ragged edges? He could have been a corpse for all Bruguière knew; if he hadn't heard him speak and seen him move with his own eyes, he'd have sworn that Erik had been dead for days. He wondered if this…thing…before him was even human.

And then, something amazing happened—tears came to Erik's eyes. He lowered his ghastly head and gasped for breath. "She wears his ring," he managed to choke out. There was no fight left in him…only obvious agony for his lost love.

Bruguière's brow knit. He did not remember seeing a ring or reading about an engagement. Could it be a secret? Would the vicomte's family approve? Knowing the nobility as he did, the attorney did not think so. Regardless, he had to keep Erik talking.

"Even so, it's obvious she cares for you."

"She _pities_ me," said Erik, spitting out the words. "Useless pity!"

"Look," Bruguière stammered. "If you don't want my help, so be it. God knows, there are plenty of miserable men under arrest for capital offenses who'd leap at the chance for my help. But you will be the one to tell _her_ that you refused my help—and you'll tell her the reason. She deserves that much. I couldn't bear to see the look in her eye, to see the pain. Let that be one more thing you've taught her, _Monsieur le Fantôme!_ That you threw away your life to spite her."

Erik lurched on his feet and steadied himself on the edge of the cot. "That's not what—"

"You could have fooled me." He turned to go. "I've wasted enough of your time, whoever you are. I'll be leaving now."

Erik swayed on his feet, leaning towards the attorney, and Bruguière could sense he was vacillating. "Reconsider what you are doing. I've come on behalf of your friend, Christine. She sees something in you worth saving, even if you don't. Why don't we talk about your…situation?"

It was no use. Erik seemed confused, disoriented, with no interest in his defense, but upon hearing _her_ name, a flicker of doubt crossed his mind. "Wait," he said softly. "Perhaps I have been...rash. Let me think about this."

Bruguière stared at him suspiciously. He knew that Erik might have committed many sordid crimes of which the authorities would never know—perhaps far worse than anything he was being charged with this time.

"Are you prepared to cooperate with me?"

The prisoner shrugged, a universal gesture of futility. "I can't be of any help to you."

"Then don't be a hindrance," the lawyer said angrily. "You will say nothing, do you understand? Nothing! You will not undermine my efforts to defend your sorry hide."

Erik managed a wry grin, but with his twisted lip, it was a grotesque mockery of human expression. "I trust you're as eloquent in court as you are persuasive in person."

Bruguière shuddered in spite of himself, and sought to cover it up with humor. "Mister, you hain't seen nuttin' yet."

Erik frowned. "I don't understand."

"A little something I picked up from the American writer, Mark Twain."

"Oh." Erik rubbed his throat with his long fingers and coughed.

"That's a nasty cough," Erik's new ally commented. "I'll send over some tea and honey, to help soothe your throat." He pointed to his client's injured arm. "Is it very painful?

He shifted the sling. "It takes my mind off my troubles."

"How bad is it? Never mind. I'll send that doctor back to examine you. I'm going to need a complete list of the injuries you suffered, and I'll arrange for him to call upon you on a daily basis until that arm is healed."

"Then I am to be represented by a competent attorney." He sat on the cot and shook his head. "How did poor Erik get so lucky?"

"Your sarcasm is wasted on me. You aren't the first alleged madman I've defended—even if you are the first one who could make La Carlotta croak like a toad.

Bruguière grinned. Finally! A real reaction.

Erik regarded him suspiciously. "You heard about that?

"Heard about it! I was there!" He dared to clap a hand on Erik's shoulder. "I've never laughed so hard in my life. Of course, there's nothing to connect you with that little prank, is there?"

His client said nothing, but shook his head.

Bruguière laughed heartily, genuine mirth making sport of the dismal surroundings.

"Good! I think we have reached an understanding. I will be back tomorrow for a full history. In the meantime, I want you to rest...and remember, someone out there is your very good friend. We mustn't let her down."

He signaled to the jailer that he was ready to leave, and barked out an order. "Take good care of my client, and you will be compensated accordingly. If he needs anything, you are to send word to me at once. Do you understand?"

Long after the sound of footsteps had ceased to echo down the corridor, Erik stared at the closed door of his cell. It would be easy—so easy—for him to walk out and disappear into the night. He'd done it before, but this time, what was the point? He had accepted the truth: His miserable existence was at an end. But this man, this attorney, had confused him.

Christine enlisted his aid. Christine wanted him to have help. Christine had brought him clothing and a doctor. Christine had…cared. Of course, it had nothing to do with him and everything to do with her own angelic nature, that she would be compassionate towards a worm like him. Moments earlier, the attorney called her Erik's friend.

Could he accept her as merely a friend, knowing that she loved Raoul? Worse yet, that she would soon be wed to him, sharing his home, his life, his bed. He cursed and dug his nails into the thin flesh of his scalp. Better to die than to dwell on this!

He sank onto the cot, exhausted, and tried to think of anything but Christine.

-0-0-0-


	7. Chapter 7

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 7**

HDKingsbury & MadLizzy

Bruguière returned the next day for a follow-up interview with Erik. He spoke to the guard on duty, a younger man who, it turned out, was more considerate than the surly sot he had encountered on his first visit.

"Certainly, sir, there's a room where you can speak to the prisoner private-like," the lad said. "I'll have to lock the door behind you while the two of you are in there. To make sure there's no escape attempt, you understand."

The attorney nodded. "Yes, I understand completely."

French justice waited for no man, and Bruguière needed to get this preliminary work completed soon, as the trial was scheduled in two weeks. He awaited the prisoner in the interview room, and was relieved to note that today, Erik was washed, shaved, and wearing a fairly clean set of clothes. At least, as clean as could be found in a prison cell. With his injured arm still in a sling, Bruguière wondered how his client had managed it all, as it was highly doubtful that any of the guards had helped.

He motioned to the empty chair at the desk, and Erik took his seat. Pulling out a legal tablet and several pencils, Bruguière dated the first page and prepared to make notes. "Let us get some preliminaries out of the way, shall we? What is your full name?"

Erik returned the attorney's gaze with the same, dispassionate expression he'd worn the previous day. "Erik," he said, flatly.

Bruguière sighed with frustration. There was nothing more exasperating than representing an uncooperative client. "Do you think I am here to play games, _Monsieur_ Erik? That I have nothing better to do with my time than pull basic information from a recalcitrant client?"

Erik made a bitter face. He did not care for the tone of the attorney's voice. "Then make it Erik Delacorte."

Bruguière started writing, then stopped. "Erik 'of the court'? Clever," he said sarcastically.

_And what game are you up to, Monsieur Attorney?_ Erik thought, taking measure of the man as if he were an adversary. Then it struck him. For some benighted reason, the man was serious. He wanted to help. Erik chewed on his lower lip, considering exactly what Monsieur Édouard Bruguière needed to know. "If you must know, the truth is I have no idea what my last name is. I ran away from home at a very young age and spent much of my youth living among traveling performers. I learned how to live by my wits, and became adept as a magician."

"And you used these skills in perfecting your opera ghost persona?"

Erik nodded sadly. "A waste of talent, I'm sure; but there were few opportunities open to me."

Bruguière made no comment but continued with his questions. The interview continued without further incident…except that he could not keep himself from looking at Erik's face. When Mlle Daaé had called on him at his office, she had spoken of the man's physical deformity, and with great kindness, too. She had also mentioned that her maestro had suffered ill treatment most of his life. And yesterday, Bruguière had seen for himself what a disaster the man's face was, but none of that had prepared him for the possibility that he would not be able to look away. It was with great effort that at last he forced himself to keep his eyes on his legal tablet.

_Concentrate on the lines on the paper, _he told himself. _Anything but the poor man's face. _

At last, he gave up. No, this would never do. If he couldn't stop himself from staring, there was little doubt but that the jury and the judges would be similarly affected. He decided it best to address the situation outright. "Do you have something with which to conceal your…disfigurement?"

Erik gave a sardonic laugh. "So, even my attorney cannot tolerate my looks. Does my face offend your sensibilities?"

The attorney rubbed his bewhiskered chin with his forefinger, mulling how to clarify the problem without giving further offense. His client's bluntness suggested that the man preferred honest speech, so that was what he would use. "It's not _my_ sensibilities that are in question, but rather, those of the jury. May I speak candidly?"

"You already are."

"Well then, the idea is to garner the sympathy of the jury, not to frighten them." The attorney's brow knit into a frown. "Or was my previous guess right, that you want to sabotage your own trial and let the government do what you cannot bring yourself to—end your own miserable life?"

Erik shifted uncomfortably in his chair under the discerning glare of the attorney's narrowed eyes. It was as if the man could see right through him, his eyes boring through flesh and bone, exposing Erik's insecurities to the light of day, and that did not feel good. The other's audacity was like a slap in the face.

Damn it! He was Erik, the Phantom of the Opera! People were supposed to cower before him, do his bidding without question; not reprimand him. This was a new experience, to have this rumpled little man not only stand up to him, but give back as good as he received. What stung even more was that the attorney might be right—that without realizing it, Erik was trying to sabotage his own chances. When he finally answered, it was a much-chastened man who spoke.

"I…I usually wore a mask over half my face," he said quietly.

Bruguière nodded agreeably. "Good. We'll make sure you have one by the time we go to trial. By the way, your voice, it is still quite hoarse. Has the doctor been here to see you?"

"Yes, and he says that the condition is most likely permanent. A lasting reminder of the wages of sin."

The attorney made more notes. "Dr. Rousseau provided me with a detailed accounting of your injuries. I understand that the arm is healing, along with the other cuts and contusions. Is there anything of which I should be aware?"

"I cannot think of any."

"And probably wouldn't tell me if you did," mumbled Bruguière as he continued writing. "I'll make a note to discuss this further with Dr. Rousseau. If there are other permanent injuries, I want to know about them so that this information can be presented to the judges. Nothing more disgusting than 'mob justice.'" He finished whatever it was he was writing and looked back up at Erik. "Also, I've arranged for you to be given three _decent _meals a day." Bruguière waved the end of his pencil in the air, using it like a conductor's baton to emphasize his words. "I will also see to it that new clothes are sent here. I don't want you in court looking like some shabby beggar. Do you have a tailor, someone who can ensure that you will have clothes that fit properly? While the ones you are currently wearing are at least serviceable, they hardly do you justice. At your trial, I don't want people to see…_this."_ The pencil waved again. "I want them to see a _gentleman_."

"Yes," Erik replied, pulling back ever so slightly from the pencil. "But…I haven't any funds…"

Bruguière cut him off. "I told you before, we shall discuss funds later. Now, give me the name and address of your tailor." Erik supplied the necessary information, and the attorney made another notes, adding it to the growing pile of papers in front of him before looking up from his tablet. "What about shoes?"

"Shoes?" asked Erik, confused by the question.

"Yes, shoes. You know, those things you wear on your feet." There went the pencil again, this time, pointing to the floor.

"I know what shoes are," Erik snapped back.

"Then why do you ask such absurd questions? I want to know if you have another pair of shoes and, if not, where do you get yours. Or do you plan on wearing those old, scuffed up things with your new suit when it arrives?"

Erik frowned and looked down at his feet. His once shiny patent leathers had certainly seen better days. He gave up. It was no use fighting. Resigned to his fate, he gave Bruguière the names and address of his tailor, his haberdasher, and anything else the attorney wanted to know.

It appeared that whether he wanted one or not, he was to have an attorney defend him. And a thoroughly competent one at that.

-0-0-0-

The courtroom was stiflingly hot, thanks to the dozens of spectators and journalists who crowded inside to see the "trial of the century." The newspapers had been filled with sensational stories about the Opera Ghost, and all of Paris wanted to read the latest. One thing was certain: The story of the Opera Ghost was selling papers as fast as his presence had sold opera tickets. Artists who could produce a true representation of Erik Delacorte were being promised a king's ransom for their reward. As a result, illustrations were being sold and published--fabricated illustrations, that is--and each one was more grotesque than the last. Bruguière was relieved that Erik hadn't seen any of the papers since this foolishness had begun.

Although it was late March, the weather was unseasonably warm, and soon windows were forced open to admit a humid breeze that made the room seem even more confining. Erik's new shoes and suit pinched his toes and chaffed against his skin, but in spite of his discomfort, he was the model of decorum, which was exactly the way Bruguière wanted him to be. The less attention he called to himself, the better. He pulled the cuffs of his morning coat over the tops of the manacles that bound his wrists. Better to hide the handcuffs, insofar as possible, rather than let them catch attention.

The courtroom was large enough to admit numerous people. These included twelve jurors (who, together with the judges, would decide the outcome of the trial), three Superior Court Justices (a tribunal headed by a president, or chief justice), the Advocate General (the prosecuting attorney), at least six law clerks, the defendant and his lawyer, and the witnesses who, in addition to giving evidence, would testify to the impact of the alleged crimes upon themselves. Because of the notoriety of this case, there would also be a large number of spectators. The judges and the advocate general sat at a high table, or Bench, elevated on a platform at one end of the room, while the gallery was directly opposite them. The Advocate General would sit at the end of the Bench, with the president of the court seated in-between the two other judges. Erik sat in front of a table, with nothing between himself and the witness stand, while Bruguière was behind him with only his law clerk, Barthlebe, to assist him.

Opening day had been a flurry of activity, with clerks scurrying about exchanging reams of paper. Conversation ceased with the arrival of Christine Daaé, radiant as always, arm-in-arm with the Vicomte de Chagny. Erik felt the blood rising in his cheeks; he felt his heart beat faster as she seated herself in the middle of a row of chairs directly behind his lawyer. He focused on the backs of his hands, forcing himself not to turn and look at her. Hushed murmurs seemed to come from every corner of the room, whispering her name.

Although everyone spoke in hushed tones, sheer numbers quickly made the noise inside the courtroom deafening, every sound echoing off the wooden floors and walnut paneled walls. All of it came to an abrupt hush when the three justices entered, dressed in a manner reminiscent of _noblesse de robe_ of olden days. Their formal judicial garments—luxuriant, flowing scarlet robes and pleated _barrettes—_cylindrical hatsmade of pleated silk—reminded Erik of illustrations of the Inquisitors of old, except each man also wore a sash indicating his rank in the judiciary. He watched with no apparent curiosity as the men who held his fate in their hands filed into the room, but he couldn't help noticing their garments, thinking of a time in the not-too-distant past when he strode dramatically into a room dressed in red. Erik had to hand it to them: French jurisprudence had a flair for theatrics.

The Advocate General, who would serve as prosecutor, was a punctilious man. Guillaume Agnelet had arrived precisely on the stroke of the hour, attaché case in hand, with not one but two law clerks dogging his trail. Heavily laden with court documents, the clerks had appeared only slightly less stern than the A.G. Each was dressed according to his status, with the Advocate General dressed identically to the judges. An _epitage_, a sash distinguishing his role, was fashioned into a small rosette and pinned to his left shoulder with a gold penannular, or circular brooch. The tip of the sash was adorned with a strip of ermine fur, which revealed a streak of pride in his appearance. Erik had regarded the man with indifference, but his interest piqued once the proceedings began in earnest.

A long list of charges were read, including destruction of public and private property within the opera house; extortion; reckless endangerment of the lives of its patrons; criminal assault of Madame Carlotta Giudicelli; the abduction with intent to defile of Mlle Christine Daaé; the attempted murder of Signor Ubaldo Piangi; and the homicide of Monsieur Joseph Buquet.

The first witness was a woman he had hoped never to see again. La Carlotta strode down the aisle of the court on her way to the witness stand as if she were taking to the stage in her grandest role to date, which was exactly how she was playing her part this day. As she passed in front of Erik, she put a gloved hand to her chest as though her heart were pounding, and sniffled into a delicate handkerchief that she used to dab away her crocodile tears. Erik shifted in his chair as Carlotta was sworn in.

"Do you swear to speak the truth without hatred or fear; to speak the whole truth and nothing but the truth?"

"Yes, of course I do," she responded curtly. She held onto the banister that separated her from the defendant, and placed her considerable weight squarely on both feet. There was no chair; apparently, witnesses would remain standing while testifying.

On the other hand, the Advocate General remained comfortably seated on the dais alongside the judges during his examination of the witness. His gaze turned sharp. He stared penetratingly at her for a long moment, during which time Carlotta's haughty demeanor began to crumble. She may have been a diva in her own world, but here, in a court of law, she was the same as any other witness, and she didn't like it one bit.

"Madame," the prosecutor began. "Please state your name and your occupation, for the record."

Carlotta swelled with pride. "I am Carlotta Giudicelli, diva of the Paris Opéra."

"Please tell the court how you met the defendant."

Her eyes darted towards Erik. "Well, I have…um…never actually met the defendant."

He cocked his head to one side and tried another tactic. "What is your association with the accused?"

Carlotta took a deep breath. "He attacked me. He poisoned me and made me croak like a toad."

Spectators stifled chuckles as the prosecutor shot them a warning look. "Why would the defendant do that?"

"He sought to replace me with his strumpet, Christine Daaé."

A gasp arose from the gallery. Erik stared straight ahead, but his knuckles were white from self-restraint.

"Are you saying that the defendant's motive in allegedly poisoning you was to position his lover as the new leading lady in the opera's production?"

"I object!" Bruguière exclaimed. "The prosecution is putting words in her mouth, and in doing so, he is slurring the character and reputation of an innocent party to this proceeding. It has not been established that my client knows Mademoiselle Daaé, and in any case, she is not charged with any wrong doing."

"My apologies," he said, with a slight bow in Christine's direction. He pressed on, undaunted. "How do you know the defendant poisoned you?"

"He is the only one with any reason to want to harm me, to ruin my career. Besides, I saw him that night, that terrible night when my precious instrument was nearly ruined." She clasped her throat and stifled a sob. "He gloated over my…condition…made sport of me."

"Indeed, Madame," Agnelet said deferentially. "It is well known that you are the brightest star on the European stage, that any injury or illness could cost the Paris Opéra millions. The managers would be hard-pressed to find a suitable replacement on short notice, if ever."

She nodded, and smiled ingratiatingly. "This is true," she said with a proud toss of her head.

Agnelet turned to the defense attorney, and with a gracious sweep of his hand, he indicated he was through questioning Carlotta, for the time being. "Your witness."

Erik's attorney rose and approached the witness stand. Bruguière held his notes in front of him, rereading them silently before addressing the witness. He let the seconds tick by as Carlotta grew increasingly uncomfortable, standing there in the heat, waiting for him to ask his questions. Finally, he began. "You have testified that you have seen the Phantom of the Opera, is that correct?"

The diva squirmed, her glance darting towards Erik before resting on the backs of her gloved hands. "Well…I…that is…not exactly."

Bruguière seized upon the apparent inconsistency. "So, you have _not _seen the Phantom? Either you have seen the Opera Ghost or you have not. Which is it, Madame?"

Carlotta, flustered by the pressure, was unsure how best to respond. "I'm not sure. I saw someone who _might _have been the Phantom, above the stage on the catwalk."

Exasperated, Bruguière allowed his frustration to show. "Isn't that where one usually finds the stagehands working?"

She was even more discombobulated by this pointed remark. "I suppose so," Carlotta admitted.

"Did you get a good look at this person who _might_ have been the Phantom as he walked overhead?" He turned his back on her and walked towards the jurors, waiting for her reply.

The diva appeared to be at a loss for words. "Erm…no, but who else could it have been?"

Bruguière smiled condescendingly at her, leaning on the railing that separated him from the jurors. "Other than any number of a dozen or more stagehands, I don't know, either. One final question, Madame: Have you ever seen my client in the opera house before? Take a good look before you answer, Madame. We must be certain…this time."

Reluctantly, she looked towards Erik. She noted his expensive shoes, the fine suit he wore, the dove gray waistcoat and plain gold watch chain. Finally, she let herself look at his face. His twisted, swollen lips jutted out from beneath the edges of his white demimask. His mismatched eyes held all the sadness in the world. This was no ghost, but a gentleman who sat before her. Her shoulders sagged, and her high head dropped a little in shame. "No, I cannot say that I have."

Bruguière waved his hand in her direction as the president of the court dismissed her from the stand. "Thank you; that will be all."

The spectators broke out in raucous laughter, jeering as Carlotta rushed out of the courtroom.

-0-0-0-

Agnelet's next witness was Mlle Marguerite Giry, the daughter of the ballet mistress and herself an aspiring ballerina. Her delicate, trim figure told volumes about the rigorous training she endured, but her youthful innocence shone on her fresh face and in her clear blue eyes. Her long blond hair was tied back with a pale blue ribbon, which only emphasized her youth. Agnelet wasted no time. "Can you tell the court what you know about the Opera Ghost?

Meg was poised for a girl still in her teens, and she answered with a clear response. "For several months, the Opera Ghost was all anyone in the corps de ballet could talk about. If anyone had an accident, or if a friend had played a trick on one of us, or if a powder puff had disappeared—whatever it was, it was the Phantom's fault."

"Is there anything else you can tell us about this Phantom?"

"Well…the Phantom is terribly thin, and wears a dress suit, but he is so thin that his clothes seem to float over his framework. His eyes are set so deeply that it is hard to see the pupils; instead, it is like seeing two large black holes, like you would see on a skull. The Phantom's skin is stretched over his bones tight, like that of a drum, and it is an ugly yellow color, like parchment."

Agnelet frowned, as if he sensed this testimony would not go in his favor. "No further questions," he said quickly, and leaned forward in his chair, seemingly preoccupied with the documents in front of him.

Bruguière seized upon her last statement. "Is that all you can tell us about the so-called Phantom?"

"No, sir," Meg said eagerly. "The Phantom also has almost no nose. If seen in profile, it is as if he has no nose at all. And what hair he has on his head is little more than three or four brown hanks hanging down in front and behind his ears."

Bruguière stepped closer to the witness stand and spoke to her gently, the way a father would speak to a daughter who has perhaps made an error. "And how do you know this, Mlle Giry? Have you seen this phantom with your own eyes?"

Meg rolled her eyes. "Well...no, not exactly."

"Not exactly?" Bruguière asked with great concern for what she might say next, implying that she must be very sure of what she was about to say. "What, may I ask, do you mean exactly?"

Meg, the graceful dancer, shifted on her feet, her uncertainty revealing itself in her posture. "It's just that...well...no one has ever seen the phantom!"

Bruguière affected surprise. "Really? Then might I suggest that he is merely the figment of an overactive imagination?"

Meg shook her head adamantly. "But...Buquet said he had seen him!"

Bruguière pursed his lips and looked at her the way one regards a simpleminded child. "Unfortunately, we cannot call the dead back from the grave to testify. Unless, of course, he is this elusive Phantom."

Meg lowered her head in shame as the gallery snickered. The president of the court banged his gavel on its sounding board, calling order to the court. "If there is another outburst," he warned, "I shall clear the court and you will all have to read about it in the evening paper."

Bruguière nodded towards Erik who, other than wearing the mask that covered the damaged half of his face, looked like any other gentleman. "And does my client fit this description?"

Meg hesitated, while muffled giggling rose among the crowd once more. "No, sir…but…"

"Thank you," Bruguière said without a hint of smugness. "That will be all."

-0-0-0-

Meg's mother, the esteemed Mme Giry, was called next. She was a woman with regal bearing, not someone to be trifled with as were many witnesses. The term, "battle ax," sprang to mind. Since Giry had provided evidence on behalf of the defense, Agnelet approached her with precision. He used his words like lancets, carefully prodding the stern woman's icy testimony, prepared to dissect every statement she made under oath. "Are you familiar with the stories of a Phantom haunting the opera house?"

Mme Giry sniffed, and the edges of her mouth turned down. "Stuff and nonsense."

"But your daughter—"

"My daughter is given to flights of fancy when she should be paying attention to her dancing. You must understand, Monsieur, that dancers are by nature a superstitious lot. Some will wear a coral ring to ward off evil spirits; others draw a St. Andrew's cross in the air. In the dancers' lounge hangs a horseshoe that everyone touches, also to ward off bad luck."

The prosecutor pinned her with his penetrating stare like an unusual specimen of moth ready to be fixed and mounted. "Have you ever received instructions from the Phantom?"

"I told you," she replied irritably. "There is no Phantom. How can I receive 'instructions' from someone who does not exist?"

Agnelet bit the inside of his cheek, and turned the witness over to the defense.

Bruguière practically leaped to his feet. "Please repeat your last answer, if you wouldn't mind," he asked facetiously. "I didn't quite hear what you said."

Giry pounded her walking stick on the floor and replied angrily. "I said, there is no phantom of the opera. How many times must I say it? He simply does not exist."

"Thank you," Bruguière replied, nodding politely to the regal woman. He turned to the jurors and looked each one in the eye before returning to his seat, as if sharing a secret. He let the words sink in: "He simply does not exist."

-0-0-0-

Guy Agnelet and Édouard Bruguière were old friends, having met at university thirty years earlier when they were both wide-eyed idealists. Whereas Agnelet was born to the position, a member of France's old _noblesse de robe_, Bruguière was a self-made man. Nevertheless, they had become fast friends.

The fact that their careers took divergent paths had not prevented them from maintaining a cordial relationship. In truth, they enjoyed sparring in the courtroom, taking opposite sides. It kept them from becoming complacent. Lately, Bruguière had thrown himself into his work, taking on more and more hopeless cases such as this one. As often as not, Agnelet had prosecuted the same cases, and so far, the score was even. Both men were determined to use their knowledge and their skill as swords of justice, and they were equally determined to represent their duty to the best of their ability.

Agnelet scanned his notes and prepared his next line of questioning. He relaxed; unlike the women he had called previously, his next witness would provide excellent testimony.

"You are Fire Lieutenant Papin?" he asked for the record.

Papin straightened his coat, proud of his title and his work. "Yes, sir."

"And you have been employed at the opera house for very long?"

"Ten years, sir." He tapped the service medal pinned to his lapel and grinned. "Says so right here."

"Now then, a fireman – especially a lieutenant – is a very brave man, someone who fears nothing."

Papin stood erect, his bearing evidence of his courage. "Yes sir, this is so."

"Can you tell the court, please, if you have ever seen this so-called Phantom?"

A faint tremor of the hands betrayed the war of nerves exploding within the fireman. Papin faltered, his eyes darting around the courtroom as he began to tremble. "Yes sir, I did, and a more frightening sight I never did see."

"Please tell the court exactly what you saw."

"It was several months ago. I cannot recall the exact date," Papin said uncomfortably. "I had gone down to the cellars to make a routine inspection. We are very diligent about making inspections, Monsieur; very diligent."

"And for that, the patrons of the opera house are in your debt, but please continue." Agnelet eased back in his chair, the very picture of relaxation. "While making your inspection, did you see this Phantom?"

"Yes, sir." Papin mopped the sweat from his brow with his bare hand.

"And what did he look like?" Agnelet kicked himself the moment he asked the question.

Papin took a deep breath and launched into his unbelievable description, knowing full well what the papers would make of it. "It was a disembodied fiery head. It came towards me, at eye level!"

Agnelet leaned forward, halfway rising from his chair, seeking to minimize the damage of this outrageous statement. "The cellars lead to the sewers, do they not? Perhaps it was a ball of gas, bad air."

Bruguière objected adamantly. "Your honors, again my learned colleague is putting words into the witness' mouth!"

"Do not lecture the court, Monsieur Bruguière," the president warned. Still, he cast a wary glance at Agnelet.

The silent signal was unmistakable. "Nothing further, your honor."

Bruguière wasted no time. "Lieutenant Papin, no one doubts the word of one of our city's finest and most heroic civil servants. Please tell the court: Do you see anyone in this room who looks like the spectre you saw in the cellars? Anyone at all?" He stretched out his hands, palms up, and looked around the room questioningly.

"No, sir," Papin admitted, thoroughly chagrined. "No one at all."

-0-0-0-

Agnelet's head had begun to pound. He sent his clerk for a headache powder, relieved when the man produced one on the spot from his attaché case. He opened the paper sleeve that held the medicinal and poured it into his mouth, washing away the bitter taste with a full glass of water. This was not going well, not well at all.

"Inspector Milfroid," he said carefully, "you were in charge of the investigation into the events leading up to and including the abduction of Mlle Daaé?"

"I object!" Bruguière exclaimed. "It is my contention that Mlle Daaé was not abducted, and I intend to prove it."

Agnelet sighed wearily and rephrased the question. "The _alleged_ abduction of Mlle Daaé?"

Milfroid nodded in earnest. "Yes, sir. I was in charge of the investigation into the abduction. The _alleged_ abduction, that is."

"Please tell the court what you found in reference to the so-called kidnapping."

The inspector stared at the ceiling and stood at attention as he testified in clipped, military terms. "Throughout the course of several very intense interviews, the young lady in question maintained that she was not abducted at all, but that she ran off on her own to warn her _maestro _that his life was in danger. Sir."

"And were you able to verify her story?"

Milfroid spoke louder than before, as if raising the volume would give his testimony more impact. "It is obvious that the events of that night left her upset, but I could find no evidence to counter her story. Taking into consideration the actions of the mob, it is entirely possible that she is telling the truth. And while he says he at first believed otherwise, the Vicomte de Chagny now corroborates her story."

Agnelet exchanged glances with Bruguière and yielded the floor. To the president of the court, he said formally, "That's all for now, your honor, but I may wish to call the witness again at a later time."

Bruguière honed in on the witness. "So, in your expert opinion, there was no abduction?"

"That is correct," Milfroid admitted.

"What about these other allegations? First, this charge that, six months ago, my client caused the chandelier to fall, causing a great deal of damage."

Milfroid inserted two fingers into his collar and loosened it. "It's true that the fall of the chandelier produced serious consequences, but an inquest ruled that it was an accident caused by the deterioration of the suspension cables and that it should have been the duty of the former directors, as well as of the present ones—and by that I mean Monsieurs Andre and Firman," he said, pointing at the two managers, "to have been aware of that deterioration and to have had the chandelier repaired before it produced a catastrophe."

Bruguière batted his eyes, as if the concept were staggeringly simple. "Then, you mean to say that the accident happened without the aid of a…ghost?"

Milfroid nodded vigorously. "That is exactly what I mean to say."

Bruguière moved in for the _coup de grâce_. "And this other matter of extortion. During the course of your investigation, did you find _any_ evidence that my client had demanded funds from the opera house management?

"Quite the contrary; we found absolutely NO evidence of attempted extortion of any kind!" Milifroid glared at the managers again. "We did, however, find that there are two sets of books when it comes to the opera house – one set that is shown to the public, and a second, secret set.

"Was there a so-called instruction book?"

"Ah yes, the _Cahier de Charges_. It is a book signed by both the Minister of Finer Arts and the directors of the opera. It specifies minutely what the rights and duties of the directors are _vis-à-vis_ the state." Milfroid seemed relieved to get this information out into the open.

"And the added rules written in red?" He referred to his notes. "Is there not a rule number five, which states, 'If the director delays for more than fifteen days the monthly sum that he owes the Phantom of the Opera—that sum, fixed, until further notice at 20,000 francs—240,000 francs per year.'"

Milfroid scoffed. "We found no such entry, just the ordinary, everyday rules regarding salaries and the like. Certainly no rules added by a ghostly hand."

Erik glanced surreptitiously in Mme Giry's direction. He saw the corner of her mouth turn up in a secret grin, and knew that she'd removed the damning evidence. Confound it, what did people see in him that made them feel he was worth saving? Maybe he should stand up and end this farce once and for all, demand to be taken to the gallows. What purpose did this serve, dragging it out this way? And then he heard it, a slight sigh of relief coming from Christine, a tiny indication that she was pleased with this turn of events. If she wanted him to win, then, he'd see it through for her sake if nothing else.

Bruguière's booming voice brought him out of his reverie. "Then I assume you found nothing that said, 'At all performances, box five of the first tier will be put at the disposition of the Phantom of the Opera.'"

"Nothing of the kind, sir." Milfroid could not hide his smirk at the ridiculous suggestion.

"Then, the only evidence you found…"

"…is of improprieties committed by Monsieurs Firman and Andre!" Milfroid exclaimed, again pointing an accusing finger in their direction. "They are the ones who should be on trial!"

Bruguière was delighted with this new evidence but hid it under the veil of professional demeanor. "Inspector Milfroid, were there any other unusual events at the opera house over the past months? Any unexplained deaths, for example?"

"No," he said, then vacillated with a frown. "Well, there was the unfortunate matter of Joseph Buquet, who hung himself during a performance."

Bruguière seemed surprised at this revelation. "During a performance? That's rather strange, isn't it?

Milfroid shrugged. "He was a heavy drinker with a lot of debts. His wife had left him and took their children with her. His death was ruled a suicide."

"Tragic. Our condolences to his family. But his death was in no way related to this _fantôme_?"

"None at all," Milfroid confirmed.

Bruguière gave him a half-smile, at once sympathetic and reaffirming. "Thank you, that will be all."

-0-0-0-

A second headache powder had taken the edge off his migraine, but now pains were shooting through Angelet's middle. "You are Signor Ubaldo Piangi, principal tenor at the opera; is this correct?" he asked tersely.

"Si," Piangi replied. Dressed in the latest colorful fashion from Milan, he looked like a proud peacock strutting among the formally attired court officials.

Agnelet minced no words on the popinjay. "Please tell the court what happened to you on the night in question."

Piangi took a breath and spoke in sweeping, theatrical tones. "I was singing the role of Don Juan and was backstage, waiting for my cue to join Mlle Daaé for the final duet when I smelled something…odd. Something different."

Erik remembered it well; he used the Mazandaran Perfume to render Piangi unconscious. Fast. Effective. Efficient. And it smelled much better than that overpriced cologne Piangi doused himself with several times a day. Why, it was enough to stagger an elephant. He could smell its stench now, emanating from the corpulent tenor all the way from the witness stand.

"You…smelled something? Was it a perfume? A fragrance?" Agnelet narrowed his eyes as he awaited an answer.

"Si. Something like that. Very sweet, cloying. Then…nothing. I woke up several hours later in my dressing room, surrounded by many strange persons. They told me I had been unconscious, drugged."

"Were you injured?" The prosecutor seemed genuinely concerned for Piangi's welfare.

Piangi broke out in a cold sweat. "Physically? No. But my nerves, they are shot! That man," he said, wagging his finger at Erik, "he took my place on stage!"

"He attacked you, drugged you, and left you unconscious while he usurped your role on stage. Is that all he did?"

Piangi was outraged. "Is that all? _Is that all!?_ What kind of stupid question is that? I could have been killed!" Spittle flew as he raged.

"Yes, you could have been killed. Your voice might have been damaged beyond repair. You might never have regained consciousness. Many possibilities can occur when a man thinks he can play with other people's lives and jeopardize their safety. It was a serious attack on an innocent man, a man who was victimized simply because he stood in the way of the defendant and Christine Daaé! You, Signor Piangi, were the innocent victim of a man who showed callous and complete disregard for the welfare of others— including Mlle Daaé." Agnelet stared hard at his old friend, Bruguière. "Your witness," he said simply.

"But you weren't," Bruguière said as he approached the witness, carrying a letter in his hand. "You weren't hurt at all. In fact, you have told several people that you've not only made a full recovery, but you're in better voice than you have been in years." He held the letter aloft so that Ubaldo could see it clearly. "In this letter to your managers, you state, and I quote, 'I have never sounded better. I should have found this Phantom years ago, and asked him to work his magic on me. If it is good enough for the Daaé girl—who is the best diva in all of Europe—it's good enough for me.'" He turned and walked away, letting Piangi wither under the cold, hard stare of his consort, La Carlotta.

Piangi blanched, realizing he'd made a fool of himself with the damnable letter. "But…that's not the point."

Bruguière paused. "And what _is _the point?"

Piangi was red-faced, apoplectic. He took out a lace-trimmed handkerchief and wiped the foam from his mouth. "That man took my place…on stage!"

"Yes, he did, and by all accounts, he put you to shame," the lawyer added. "Thank you, Signor Piangi."

-0-0-0-

There was practically no point to going any further with this mockery of a trial, and Guillaume Agnelet was tempted to request a closed session with Bruguière to discuss a plea. He knew his old friend well, though, and nothing short of exoneration would satisfy him. It was beginning to look as though that was exactly what this man, Erik Delacorte, deserved. The fact that the public had been screaming for blood only compounded the situation. It would not do to leave the question of guilt or innocence unproven. Guy sent his clerk to the apothecary for a stronger powder, hoping the man would be back soon.

Something about the next witness apparently unnerved the staid prosecutor. Perhaps it was her innocence, an unaffected air of naïveté that simply radiated from her. He approached the witness stand with care, seemingly drawn to her by the same spell that every man fell under.

It was Christine Daaé's turn to speak.

-0-0-0-


	8. Chapter 8

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 8  
By HDKingsbury and MadLizzy**

There was practically no point to going any further with this mockery of a trial, and Guillaume Agnelet was tempted to request a closed session with Bruguière to discuss a plea. He knew his old friend well, though, and nothing short of exoneration would satisfy him. It was beginning to look as though that was exactly what this man, Erik Delacorte, deserved. The fact that the public had been screaming for blood only compounded the situation. It would not do to leave the question of guilt or innocence unproven. Guy sent his clerk to the apothecary for a stronger powder, hoping the man would be back soon.

Something about the next witness apparently unnerved the staid prosecutor. Perhaps it was her innocence, an unaffected air of naïveté that simply radiated from her. He approached the witness stand with care, seemingly drawn to her by some mysterious spell.

It was Christine Daaé's turn to speak.

-0-0-0-

"Mlle Daaé, as you know, the defendant stands accused of abducting you. Is this true? Remember, you are under oath."

"Yes, sir," she replied quietly. The jurors sat on the edges of their seats, while the spectators strained to hear her. "On my eternal soul, I swear that no one abducted me, certainly not my maestro."

"You refer to the defendant as your maestro. Why is this?" Agnelet wanted to know, to satisfy his own curiosity.

Christine tucked a stray strand of her reddish blond hair behind her ear. "Because that is what he is—my maestro, my teacher, my voice coach." She was nervous, but concealed it well. She reached for the water glass on the edge of the banister, and forced herself to take a tiny sip.

"And how long has he been your teacher?" Agnelet's manner was soothing, trustworthy. He stood directly in front of Christine, watching her closely, in case Erik was controlling her through mesmerism or silent signals that she'd been conditioned to obey.

Christine set down the glass. "Not quite a year. He…approached me, offered to teach me, shortly after I had graduated from the conservatory and came to the opera house. He heard me sing in the chorus and assured me that I had promise…if I would allow him to be my teacher."

The prosecutor turned his attention towards Erik, but asked Christine the next question. "Your relationship has been described by some as unusual, that no one ever actually saw the two of you together. Why is this?"

A wan smile followed. "Eri—the maestro is shy, retiring. He is not comfortable among people. We met in quiet places, often after hours."

"Can you offer any explanation why?" Agnelet asked.

Christine spoke with all the sadness in the world. "Because of his appearance. His face is…."

"Yes," Agnelet said with genuine compassion, but it wouldn't do to let the jurors develop sympathy for the man. "A terrible misfortune. But let us concentrate on the night in question. You said that you disappeared to warn your teacher. Warn him of what?"

She looked at him curiously. "That his life was in jeopardy."

"Can you elaborate?"

Christine glanced at Raoul before answering. "The Vicomte de Chagny had come to me, imploring me to take part in a scheme to lure my maestro, who he believed was this Phantom, out into the open. The plan was for my teacher's opera to be performed, and for me to sing the lead female role."

"_Don Juan Triumphant._ Isn't that the name of it?" Agnelet asked, probing.

"Yes," Christine answered softly. She closed her eyes as though the memory of that night, that opera, threatened to overwhelm her.

"So, the Vicomte de Chagny is one of those who believed the defendant to be the Phantom? But you say his is not. Why did you go along with this plan, if it endangered your teacher, this maestro you claim to be innocent of any wrongdoing?"

Christine hung her head, unable to look anyone in the eye. "I'm sorry to say that, at the time, I did. I was troubled, confused. I trusted my teacher, but others were saying terrible things about him, and I felt twisted every way. The managers wanted one thing of me, the vicomte wanted another, and …" She paused, momentarily unable to continue, as tears began to flow. "Forgive me, my dear teacher; I allowed others to sway my thinking, to cloud my mind with unfair accusations."

"And so you sang," Agnelet snapped. It would not do to let the jury see Christine imploring her maestro for forgiveness. "Did your maestro join you on stage?"

"Yes," she replied, struggling for composure.

"Was this part of your plan to catch the Phantom?"

"It wasn't _my_ plan," she said, shaking her head angrily. "I…I'm not sure how it happened. I suddenly realized that what we were doing to him was wrong. I only knew that he was in danger, that gendarmes were all around.

"Is that why you exposed his charade?"

"I thought…if they could see that he was just a man, an ordinary man…then the lights went out and he disappeared. I followed him…"

Agnelet nodded as if he understood. "And that is how you ended up in the cellars with him?"

"Yes," Christine whispered.

"Did he threaten you?"

She gave up trying to hold back the tears. "No," she sobbed.

"You were held against your will."

"No!" she cried.

"So, you and your teacher were having a cup of tea and chatting like old friends?"

"I was frantic. I knew that soon, others would find us. I…I wanted him to leave."

"Is this when the Vicomte de Chagny found the two of you?"

"Yes," she gasped, choked with emotion.

Erik sat bolt upright in his chair, rigid with tension. He was ready to end this charade once and for all, to spare her the indignity of testifying. Bruguière placed a hand on his shoulder and whispered to him to stay calm. "Steady," he added quietly. "It can only be good for her, to get it all out in the open."

Christine's testimony spilled forth, and with each passing moment, she grew stronger, more confident. "At first, the Vicomte thought I was in danger, but I was able to convince him that this was not the case. Erik…I mean, my teacher insisted that the two of us leave. He has known nothing but intolerance and hatred…because of his face, and because of his many gifts. There are many superstitious people who will see a man like him and…not understand. I myself did not understand at first." She dug her nails into her palm, hoping the pain would drive away her tears. "He knew that the mob would not understand….that if we remained down there with him…that…that we might be harmed, too."

"And you returned upstairs," Agnelet surmised. "Did you try to tell anyone what really happened?"

Christine scoffed. "Do you think they would have believed me?"

"Better than allowing an innocent man to be arrested on false charges, Mademoiselle. The fact that you told no one this _story_ suggests that at, at the very least, you believed differently at the time than you do now." He returned to his seat. "Those are all the questions I have at this time, your honors."

Bruguière squeezed Erik's shoulder, silently begging him to remain silent. "Mademoiselle Daaé, I have only one question for you. The distinguished prosecutor has suggested that you have had a change of opinion regarding the night in question, that at the time, you believed you had been abducted, but that you have since changed your mind. Is that true?"

"No, sir, it is not." She held her head high and her chin jutted out with determination. "I did not then, nor have I ever, claimed that I had been abducted by any man." She added, with a smirk, "Or any phantom."

-0-0-0-

The Vicomte de Chagny took the stand the way he tackled every challenge: He charged up to it as if he owned it.

"Monsieur le Vicomte," Agnelet said, with all due respect, "can you tell us in your own words what happened the night of the alleged abduction?"

Raoul turned red-faced, unaccustomed to public humiliation. "I am ashamed to admit that I was wrong. Mlle Daaé had been behaving in a secretive manner. It wasn't until it was too late that I learned the truth, that her teacher shunned society because of a severe disfigurement. I thought…I thought he was controlling her, having an undue influence over her. I'd been hearing tales about a ghost skulking about the opera house, and thought her teacher and this _fantôme_ were the same person."

Agnelet raised his eyebrows, skepticism etched in his expression. "Are you saying now that this is not the case?"

"I discovered, much to my chagrin, that I had overreacted. You see, I had been fearful for Mlle Daaé and had silly notions of being a knight in shining armor, riding off to her rescue."

"So, the night of the performance in question, you were watching Mlle Daaé on the stage, and when she and the defendant disappeared, you followed them?"

"That is correct. I suspected that they would go down to the cellars. That's where they'd met in the past, so that no one would disturb them. When I first came upon them both, I was sure that Chris…I mean, Mlle Daaé was in danger. Like a fool, I rushed in, threatening the defendant. Luckily for the both of us, he disarmed me and was able to talk sense into me. The rest happened pretty much as Mlle Daaé described it."

"Are you saying that Mlle Daaé and the defendant were...lovers?"

"No!" Raoul replied angrily. "I'm saying they were more like...friends. He was her _teacher_, for God's sake!"

"So he was only trying to _teach_ her when he _kidnapped_ her from the stage?"

"You're making it sound so...dirty. What I'm saying is, he didn't hurt her. He didn't force her to do anything. And he let me take her to a place of safety when the mob found us. He stayed behind...."

Raoul's face went slack, as if he grasped a difficult concept for the first time. A flash of inspiration had given him clarity of thought that had eluded him for weeks since the ordeal began. "If he hadn't sent us away when he did, the mob...they might have turned on us, too! God knows what they might have done. They were like animals that night." He shuddered at the memory of it. "I tell you, it was horrible. Horrible! They were out of their minds, frenzied! It was mob justice, vigilantism, a free for all. They attacked anyone who stood in their way, looted his home, and destroyed what they could not carry out of there. Ask Meg Giry; she was there! She saw it all!"

He turned to Erik and stared at him with unabashed empathy. "This is what _he_ has had to live with all his life. No wonder he hides himself and wears masks."

Agnelet locked eyes with Bruguière. "I am finished, your honors."

"Very well," said the president of the court, oblivious to the double _entendre_. "Monsieur Bruguière, you may proceed."

Bruguière hadn't realized he'd been holding his breath during the Vicomte's testimony, but now, he allowed himself a deep sigh of relief. "I have no questions for this witness. None at all." What he left unsaid was, "The prosecution has represented my client very well."

-0-0-0-

Summation was ordinarily an eloquent affair—and a long, drawn out one. Agnelet was a master of elocution, famous for his use of vivid imagery that appealed to the common man sitting on the jury, but equally skilled at delivering a legal argument that would please the most persnickety of judges. He was, in short, a lawyer's lawyer; but, even Guy Agnelet knew when he was beaten, and this time, he didn't mind. Whatever Erik Delacorte had done, there was simply insufficient evidence to prove him guilty.

Agnelet's summation went straight to the point. "Messieurs, I beg of you to think on the evidence presented to you this day. Erik Delacorte has been accused of heinous crimes. He has been accused of mayhem, extortion, assault, murder, attempted murder, kidnapping. Ask yourselves, if you will, what has the evidence shown? I think you know, in your heart, the answer to this question."

Bruguière blinked with surprise at old friend's approach, but he attacked his own summation with gusto. "Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, my client is guilty of only one crime: A crime of the heart! His only mistake was in falling in love with a woman who belonged to another man."

"I object!" Everyone in the courtroom turned to look at the source of this outcry. It was Christine Daaé, standing beside a slack-jawed Raoul de Chagny. The spectators roared.

The president availed himself of his gavel once again, banging it loudly to restore order in the court. "Sit down, Mademoiselle. This is no time for shenanigans."

Christine continued, doing her best to appear contrite but not backing down. "Forgive me, your honor, but for the record, I must state that I do not belong to any man." She seemed surprised at her own boldness, even as she spoke the fateful words.

The judge smiled ever so slightly. "You are still under oath, Mademoiselle."

Christine nodded. "I know." Then, she looked at Raoul with deep sadness. "The Vicomte de Chagny has been my friend, nothing more. We are no longer children on holiday. We are from different worlds, he and I." He reached for her hand, and she took it and held it tight.

The courtroom was utterly silent except for the scratching of pencils against notepads. The journalists would have a field day with this, and with any luck, they'd have it in the evening papers. The society columnists would be busy for weeks with this kind of news.

Erik whispered, "Christine...no...." This is not what he wanted, not at all! She was supposed to live happily ever after with the man of her dreams. Brave, strong, wealthy, noble, _handsome_ Raoul. He was everything she needed. He could give her the stability she longed for, and here she was, throwing it all away—for what?

The president rapped the gavel perfunctorily. "The jury will disregard this interruption. And let me warn the spectators, there will be no further outbursts."

-0-0-0-

The judges leaned their heads together, speaking in low whispers to avoid being heard by the rest of the court. Whatever it was they were saying to each other, it was to remain unknown – for now. When they finished, the tribunal filed out to their private chamber to deliberate.

There was the usual milling about of the spectators, nearly all of whom planned on remaining nearby, waiting to hear the verdict. The bailiff checked to ensure Erik was still handcuffed and escorted him to an anteroom where he would await the verdict, his attorney with him. On the way out, Christine reached out and touched his arm. He paused and their eyes met for a moment.

"I'll be praying for you," she said softly.

Erik tried to smile. "Thank you…for everything you've done."

Raoul was standing beside Christine, and offered a small, "Good luck, Monsieur," as well.

Erik was saved from making a reply by the bailiff, who gently but firmly urged them to continue to the waiting area.

-0-0-0-

Bruguière and Erik sat in the anteroom, awaiting notification that the tribunal had reached a verdict. It was a small, functional room with a large wooden table worn smooth by years of use, and several chairs were scattered around it. The room had seen many meetings and conferences – between prosecutor and defense, between defense attorney and client, and defendants and their families awaiting a verdict. It was a room that had seen much tension over the years, and today was no different.

In spite of earlier statements that he didn't give a fig about outcome of the trial, Erik found he was nervous. He tried to disguise it by staring at the floor, but his stomach was tied in knots and he could not keep himself from fidgeting with his hands. Effortlessly, he slipped the handcuffs off, setting them aside as he glanced askance at Bruguière. "Don't worry. I make it a practice never to kill my attorney, especially when he's done such a good job of defending me. I'll put them back on before the bailiff returns. No one will be the wiser." He massaged his broken hand gingerly before cradling it in the sling.

Bruguière slipped off his robe of office and loosed his jabot. "Very amusing. I'm quaking in my boots." He flashed a cockeyed grin at Erik. "For a man who doesn't care if he lives or dies, you give the appearance of being more than mildly concerned with the verdict the judges will hand down."

Erik gave the attorney an almost humorous look. "Would it help if I told you that I've had a change of heart?"

"Don't worry," said Bruguière as he took a seat next to Erik and grinned, as if the two were sharing a secret. "I won't give you away. Besides, you're not the first person I've defended who's changed his mind about wanting to live."

Erik looked over at the door. "How long does it usually take? For the tribunal to come to a verdict, I mean."

"Hard to say. Sometimes, only a few minutes; others, hours. These judges are schooled in not revealing their thoughts, but it looked to me as if they might have their minds pretty much made up. All they need is the jury's recommendation, which they may or may not accept."

"That's not good…is it," said Erik, suddenly feeling depressed. Already, he could feel the hangman's noose around his neck. Or would it be the quick cut of a blade? He tried to swallow, but found his mouth had gone dry.

"Thirsty?" asked Bruguière.

Erik nodded. Why deny it. Bruguière only wanted to help. "As a matter of fact, yes."

"Me, too. Trials are thirsty business."

The attorney got up and walked over to the door and summoned the bailiff, requesting a pitcher of water and a couple of glasses. The man agreed and a few minutes later, returned with a pitcher of cool, fresh water. Erik slid his uncuffed wrists under the table, out of sight, while Bruguière thanked the other man and poured two glasses, handing one to Erik once the bailiff was out of the room.

"Why should _you_ be nervous," Erik asked, accepting the glass.

Bruguière sat back down across the table from him. "I take my clients and their cases very personally. When they win, I win."

"Of course."

"I didn't mean it that way," Bruguière said gruffly.

Erik actually smiled this time. "I know."

The attorney chuckled. "Could it be that the fearsome Opera Ghost has a sense of humor after all?" Bruguière went on to explain that for him, there was a special thrill of winning a case, especially a difficult one in which it looked as if the odds were stacked against his client, becoming quite animated as he talked.

"Hopeless cases like mine," said Erik.

"Yes, rather like yours. I'm not going to pretend to know everything you've been through, how much you may have suffered because of how you look, but I know how it feels to strike a blow in the name of Justice."

"You're an idealist."

"Is that so wrong? Which is worse – to be an idealist or a pessimist?"

"What about a realist?"

Bruguière read skepticism on what he could see of Erik's face. "Depends upon what you mean by 'realist.' Are you truly referring to reality, or simply using that as another excuse for the way you've lived?"

"Maybe, if you'd lived as I have, you wouldn't know the difference." Erik stopped talking, worried that he had revealed too much of himself. "It is understandable that winning a case would be cause for celebration," he said at last, "but what happens when you lose one?"

Bruguière became more somber. "I seldom lose."

"But you have lost cases in the past. What then? What will you do if you lose _this _case?"

"Then we shall appeal!"

"And if the appeal is denied?"

The attorney looked towards the door, as if he could figure the answer to this puzzle by staring at it. "I can't say." He sat quietly, considering a variety of legal strategies in case Erik was convicted.

A knock interrupted his thoughts. It was the bailiff. "The judges wish to speak to you, Monsieur Bruguière," the man announced.

"Why would they want to speak with you?" Erik asked. "Do you suppose…"

Bruguière shook his head, confused. "It must have to do with their verdict," the attorney explained. "They may want to discuss some kind of deal."

"Monsieur Bruguière," Erik said, stumbling over words he was not familiar with saying, "no matter what happens, I…I want to thank you." He held out a hand in friendship.

Bruguière did not hesitate to accept. "You're quite welcome, sir. It has been a privilege to defend you. No, I mean it. Truly a privilege." Then he leaned over and spoke quietly, so that the bailiff could not hear. "You'd better put those back on," he said, indicating the handcuffs. "And try not to fret. I'll see to it you get the best deal possible." And then he left with the bailiff.

Erik stared at the door long after it closed. There was nothing to do but wait, and think. And if there was one thing he was uncomfortable with these days, it was his own thoughts. With nothing else to occupy the time, however, he was forced to contemplate all that had happened over the past weeks, but his thoughts were a swirl of conflicting emotions. He remembered shouting at Christine, screaming that the world had never shown him any compassion, but that was wrong. People had been willing to show him compassion, understanding – if he had only opened his eyes and looked around instead of dwelling upon his own self-pity and misery.

There was Mme Giry, his long-time confidant and the person who had taken him in and given him shelter many years ago. Thanks to her intimate knowledge of the opera house, she had managed to get hold of the ledgers that exposed the managers' embezzlement of funds and made sure that all references to his extortion had disappeared. There was Christine, who had given him his first and only kiss, and who had lied for him, and Raoul who, for whatever reason, backed up her testimony. And now Bruguière. The realization of what all these people had done for him humbled Erik. It was a sensation he had never experienced before, and it left him confused, troubled.

-0-0-0-

Bruguière strode down the hallway, his lawyer's robe billowing behind him in the turbulence. Being summoned to the judges' chambers was unusual, but not unprecedented. He knew that any number of situations might have arisen that required his presence; he only hoped it did not bode ill for his client. He rounded the corner and nearly collided with Agnelet, also en route to chambers. The two men nodded to acknowledge one another, but did not speak.

The door opened, and a clerk beckoned to them to enter. He handed both men a sheaf of papers, documents of new evidence that had come to light. They scanned it quickly, deep ridges of concern etching both their brows.

The president of the court, Chief Justice Hèrcǔle Montaigne, indicated two empty chairs in front of the ornately carved table reserved for the judiciary. The other members of the tribunal, Justice Rabine and Justice Gaillard, were formally seated on either side of him. From the looks of them, this was not going to be pleasant.

"Gentlemen, be seated," Montaigne said hoarsely, his throat gravelly and rough from deliberating. "New evidence has come to light. Milfroid's men have discovered a broken bottle in the house underneath the opera where the defendant was apprehended. It contains the remnants of a sweet, cloying liquid...such as Signor Piangi described. However, since you have both rested your case, there is a legal question of whether it can be introduced."

Agnelet sat up straight and leaned forward eagerly, like a dog catching scent of its prey. "Why not have Signor Piangi tell us whether this is the same odor he recalls smelling before he lost consciousness?

"I object!" Bruguière shifted in his chair and shook his head angrily. "Piangi isn't a complete fool. He'll know that if he answers in the affirmative, my client will be linked with this liquid. Anyone could have brought that bottle to my client's home—perhaps a member of the mob that attacked him—and planted it there to incriminate him." He fumed before adding, "I will only agree to a blind test. Bring in several samples of aromatic liquid, blindfold Piangi, and then let him identify which one is the same as he recalls."

Rabine, famous for his well-considered legal opinions, ventured forth. "This is a matter for another trial. Signor Piangi may use the new evidence in a civil suit, if he so desires, but the jury has finished deliberating. This case is closed. Monsieur Delacorte cannot be tried a second time for attempted murder."

"Why not?" Gaillard inquired. "The jury's decision is not binding upon us. Since when has it been impossible to charge a man with a crime? We've made no decision, reached no verdict in this case." Gaillard scratched his head and gazed out the window, apparently bored by the arcane details that were complicating what he had expected to be an open and shut case.

Rabine exploded, his patience worn thin by Gaillard's indifference towards the chance to test a new legal theory. "Nevertheless, the jury has returned its decision! Even though it has not yet been read, it cannot be ignored." He stifled a groan and looked to Montaigne to explain the crux of the matter to his not-so-learned colleague.

The president took a sip of water to soothe his raw throat before launching into an explanation. "The code of penal procedure is breaking new ground on a theory of adjudication. The theory being considered is, once the prosecutorial arguments have closed, prosecuting an already judged crime is impossible even if new incriminating evidence has been found."

Rabine, who enjoyed showing off his knowledge, seized the chance to elucidate. "However, a person who has been convicted may request another trial on grounds of new exculpating evidence."

"And what about those ledgers I turned over to the police?" Bruguière asked. "Why were they not introduced into evidence?"

All eyes were on Agnelet. "There is nothing in them that incriminates your client," he explained patiently. "Instead, they point to the managers. You'll be pleased to note that the court has already issued a warrant for their arrest."

Bruguière understood, softened his defensive posturing once he realized that Agnelet was doing the right thing. "I assume they've been charged with embezzlement."

A cold smile crept across Agnelet's face. "And fraud, and a number of lesser charges that may hold water. Oh, I'm sure your client is not entirely innocent, but the fact is, there is no proof of his guilt."

Gaillard, drawn back into the debate, threw out an intelligent statement. "Signor Piangi is free to bring a civil suit against M. Delacorte, if he wishes. Let the lower courts deal with it," he added slyly.

A moment of quietude descended upon the men, before Agnelet broke the silence. "Your honor, there is the matter of Delacorte's usurping Piangi's part in the opera."

The defense attorney bristled. "You'd find him guilty of impersonating an opera star?"

Gaillard snickered. "That is not a bad idea. We can't let him off Scot free"

"I'm suggesting that we not let him off," Agnelet said testily. "Signor Piangi deserves to be compensated for the defendant's usurping his role. The public demands it. Therefore, the State would be satisfied if the defendant is convicted of trespassing and disturbing the peace. The People ask that Monsieur Delacorte be barred from attending any performance at the opera house, and from coming within 500 feet of the premises."

Being banned from the premises was a minor punishment, especially in light of the serious charges that had been brought against Erik Delacorte. Bruguière squinted at his old friend, wary of any hidden complications. "For how long?"

"For a period not to exceed five years, with the possibility of expunging his record if there are no further _incidents_. That should cool him off." He extended his hand, offering a handshake on the bargain.

"No," Bruguière snapped, looking at Agnelet's hand with disdain. "I do not accept this deal. My client has been convicted of nothing!"

"Then let Piangi come in here at once, identify this bottle, and I shall vigorously press the charges of attempted murder. When I'm through with him, your client will be lucky if he only gets life in solitary confinement on Devil's Island." Agnelet turned his back on the defense attorney and crossed his arms over his chest. Damn it, two could play this game.

"You wouldn't!" Bruguière snarled. "My client wouldn't last a month on Devil's Island. No one could. It's infested with fever, disease. Vermin!"

Agnelet smiled wickedly. "Try me."

Montaigne stood and smoothed out his long judicial robe. "Well, Monsieur Bruguière? What do you say? Is your client willing to throw himself on the mercy of the jury?" He watched as Bruguière shook his head slowly. "No? Then the tribunal will deliberate. The two of you will wait outside."

-0-0-0-

Erik had no idea how long he sat in the anteroom; there was no clock on the wall, and he had no watch; the gold chain he wore (which had caught Carlotta's attention when she was testifying) was borrowed from Bruguière, and was merely for show. He looked at the high, clerestory windows, trying to determine from the light how much time had elapsed, but that did little good. It could have been a few minutes or a few hours. But then he was brought back to the present by another knock on the door. Bruguière strode in, his face solemn.

"Come along, Erik. Court is being reconvened. The tribunal has reached a verdict."

-0-0-0-


	9. Chapter 9

**To Be Loved**

**Chapter 9  
By HDKingsbury and MadLizzy**

"A verdict? Already?" Erik stood and straightened his jacket. He slipped the manacles over his wrists, careful of his broken hand. It was still tender, though cradled in a sling with his good hand resting protectively atop it. "How did it go? Is it the gallows for me?"

Bruguière shook his head slowly. The argument with Agnelet had left him tired and snappish. "I have no idea. It could go either way."

"There's more, isn't there. Something you aren't telling me." Erik's piercing gaze demanded an answer.

"You should be prepared for the worst, but hope for the best."

"Ha," Erik responded, scoffing. "Then it's Devil's Island. Better they should send me to meet Mme Guillotine, than to waste away on that hell hole." He lowered his voice. "I'll die before I go there."

"Courage," Bruguière said softly. "Let's go see what they have to say, shall we?"

A hush fell over the people lining the corridor. Some were attached to Erik's case, others, to unrelated court business, while a few were private citizens hoping to catch a glimpse of the Phantom. Once the noise in the hall abated, the two men could clearly hear the cacophony of hundreds of people outside the building. Raucous cries could be heard from the street where the unruly crowd had gathered to await the verdict of the Opera Ghost's trial.

From time to time, Erik's name rose above the din followed by cheers as well as curses. Erik saw the blood drain from the face of tight-lipped Bruguière. "If the rabble is any indication, it won't be a unanimous verdict," he said lightly.

The attorney flinched. "Paris hasn't seen such commotion in years, and the police are straining to contain it," he said tersely.

Erik knew firsthand how fickle a mob could be, and how treacherous. Under the circumstances, a zealot could easily incite a riot. He'd watched all day as spectators in the courtroom passed notes about the proceedings out the window to the masses gathered outside the building. He also knew that, thanks to this steady trickle of information, at least a few among crowd who'd begun the day calling for his head were now clamoring for his release.

Bruguière pulled him up short of the courtroom, remembering Erik's comment about not going to the infamous Devil's Island, a penal colony off the shore of French Guiana. Few men made it off the island, which was infested with fevers, disease, and vermin, not to mention inhuman living conditions. Knowing that there was a possibility of such a sentence, Bruguière searched for a silver lining – some hope that Erik could cling to, in the event of a conviction.

"There's something you should know before we go in there," he said. "Mlle Daaé was outside during the deliberations, telling her side of the story to the crowd. It helped turn sentiment in your favor. The story is all over Paris by now. Special editions of the evening papers include parts of the testimony, verbatim. They've turned you from some kind of perverted monster into 'a man more sinned against than sinning,' but it wouldn't have been possible without Christine. She's an angel, that one, and very persuasive. She had them eating out of the palm of her hand."

"She shouldn't defend me," Erik growled angrily. "She's compromising herself."

"She doesn't see it that way. She thinks she's somehow redeeming herself by helping you. If this doesn't go well for you, then you must remember one thing: Christine fought for you."

"Why?" He gasped, astonished. "Why would she---"

"It doesn't matter why! It only matters that she did it. Don't you understand?" Bruguière squared off with him, driving home the point. "In spite of yourself, Erik, you have friends. People who care what happens to you. Remember that, no matter what happens in this room."

~*~

He had never felt more exposed, more vulnerable, than he did at that very moment. All those years locked in a cage before breaking out, forced to be displayed as a freak of nature in a travelling fair. Humiliation, degradation, and despair threatened to overwhelm his sensibilities. "This is how being on exhibit felt," he recalled, and he knew he'd do whatever was necessary to avoid being treated like a specimen again. But there she was, seated behind the dock where she had been throughout the trial. He avoided looking at Christine, but he knew she was there, seated behind Bruguière. He would endure this for her. He would do anything for her. There would be plenty of time later to end his miserable existence.

A murmur arose as Erik and Bruguière entered the courtroom. This late in the day, the sun ceased to beat upon the tall windows, and a late afternoon breeze stirred the air, carrying with it sounds from the street. "Guilty!" a rabble-rouser shouted, followed by a roar of disapproval from another man in the crowd. In the courtroom, spectators strained for a glimpse at the commotion outside, while Erik took his place in the dock in front of the defense table.

Agnelet and his team of clerks entered soon afterwards, sweeping into the courtroom with a flourish of activity. The clerks fussed over volumes of records and documents, organizing them and reorganizing them until Agnelet dismissed them with a wave of his hand. They took their places close at hand, ready to serve the prosecutor at a moment's notice. Erik suppressed an impatient snort while they settled down.

Next, the jury filed in, dour and grim, and took their places in the jury box. Erik studied their faces, which was easy since none of them would look at him. He gathered that his fate was sealed; if they couldn't bear to look at him, then it stood to reason that they'd found him guilty. Otherwise, one might have at least smiled at him, as if to say, "It's all right. You're a free man." But these jurors took their duty to heart, and trained their attention on the judges' bench. When the bailiff called, "All Rise," they stood in unison, reminding Erik of soldiers at attention.

Everyone stood, watching the tribunal return to the bench. Outwardly, they appeared disinterested, as if trying an Opera Ghost were mundane, and their faces betrayed no sign that they had argued passionately about their decision behind closed doors.

Once the judges were seated, the bailiff motioned to the spectators to sit, and the president turned to the jury. "Has the jury reached a verdict?" he asked.

The foreman stood, and hesitated to speak until Bruguière and Erik were also standing. "We have, your honor. We find the defendant guilty of all charges."

If Erik heard him, it was impossible to tell. He stood stock still while the courtroom erupted in a furor and the judge banged his gavel loudly.

"Quiet!" Montaigne ordered, as the bailiff delivered the jury's notes to the judge. He raised his eyebrows as he read the jury's recommendation for sentencing, and passed the notes to his fellow justices before addressing the jury.

"Thank you, gentlemen. You have discharged your duty, for which the State thanks you. Because this is a complex case, involving serious allegations, the tribunal is serving as a _juge d'instruction_. We cannot base our verdict on emotion, nor on personal inclination, but we must base it on the facts before us, facts which are almost exclusively exculpating. Reason dictates the outcome. Therefore, it is the decision of the court to set aside your verdict."

Bruguière squeezed Erik's elbow and whispered, "Do you realize what this means?" under his breath. Across the room, Agnelet smirked at his long-time friend, as if to say, "I knew it all along."

"The court has examined all of the evidence, and finds that there is insufficient proof to convict Erik Delacorte of any of the charges brought against him. We have, however, determined that he is guilty of criminal trespass and disturbing the peace."

La Carlotta let out a scream, swooned in a fine stage faint, and fell through the open arms of Signor Piangi, who slumped beside her in his chair. She landed with a resounding thump on the hardwood floor. But such grandstanding was all for naught. No one was interested in her; they only wanted to see Erik.

Christine said a silent prayer of gratitude to the good Lord, while Raoul put an arm around her shoulder and held her tight. It was impossible to tell, from outward appearances, whether he was pleased with the verdict or not, but he supported Christine nonetheless.

"Innocent!" went the cry out on the street, followed by shouting. Shrill whistles from the police pierced the air, as the crowd threatened to turn ugly.

The president continued, staring directly at Erik. "Have you anything to say before sentence is read?"

Erik opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come. He shook his head. His once perfect voice had failed him. "My client was injured by the mob that broke into his home," Bruguière offered as an explanation, "but I believe he is deeply humbled by the verdicts—both of them." Erik seemed numb, rooted to the spot, but he nodded to affirm his lawyer's statement.

"Be that as it may," Montaigne continued, "For these two misdemeanors, Monsieur Delacorte is sentenced to thirty days in jail, said time to be deducted from the amount of time he has already spent in prison. Further, he is restricted from going within five hundred feet of the opera house for five years hence. The court also demands parole of Monsieur Delacorte – his word of honor – that he will have no further contact with any employee, officer, manager, or designee of the opera house for the same period of time. A probation officer will be assigned to supervise the conditions of your release, Monsieur Delacorte, and to monitor your behavior in the community; you will meet with him upon adjournment."

He rapped the gavel one final time before announcing, "Court is adjourned."

~*~

The tribunal disappeared behind closed doors as the courtroom erupted with cries of dismay, which were quickly shouted down by a few spectators whose opinion of Erik had changed for the better during the testimony. Journalists sprang to their feet and sprinted from the room, rushing to get the story to the presses.

Erik appeared to be dazed by the revelation of a relatively light sentence. "Don't you understand?" his advocate shouted above the din. "It's not Devil's Island or even the city jail! You're free, Erik! Free!" Hands reached out from all directions and clapped the two of them on the back, strangers offering congratulations, while the bailiff removed the handcuffs. Erik massaged his broken hand as best he could, glad to be relieved of the burden of the heavy iron manacles.

When news of the verdict spread to the crowd gathered on the street, public sentiment reared up in all its ugliness. Angry words led to shoving; shoving led to fisticuffs, and soon, an all-out brawl threatened to engulf the entire congregation. The police struggled to contain them. Mounted officers pushed the crowd back with their horses, while tall iron gates slammed shut behind them.

Agnelet sauntered over, his clerks in tow, and extended his hand to Bruguière. "Congratulations," he said, while looking straight at Erik. "We'll speak tomorrow about your testimony."

Squinting, Bruguière peered through his half-frames at the prosecutor. "What do you mean by that? My client's testimony is a matter of record. Talk to the court reporter if you want a transcript."

"Now, now. Don't get testy with me. I merely want to depose your client on the matter of those ledgers." He stared into the crowd, and with a toss of his head, indicated that Firmin and André were being led away in handcuffs. "Those two have been arrested for embezzlement. Unlike your last case, this one seems ironclad." He offered a handshake to Erik, who stared down at Agnelet's hand, still stunned by the turn of events. "Go ahead," Agnelet teased. "It won't bite you."

Slowly, a wry grin crossed Erik's face. "What if I am a hostile witness? After all, those men had me on their payroll for many years."

"No doubt, you'll have a good attorney to advise you," Guy responded warily. "What is this man thinking, Bruguière? That he was let entirely off the hook? Freedom comes with a price, Delacorte, and yours hinges on cooperation with the State."

"I didn't have time to explain it to him." Bruguière turned to Erik and said quietly, "You are to have immunity from prosecution, in return for testifying against your former managers. It's a bargain, Erik, and a good one." He glanced at the crowd pressing around them. "Come – let's take this conversation elsewhere. We've much to discuss."

La Carlotta was recovering from her faint, as was Signor Piangi. Erik looked on with amusement as a cortege attended them, pampering them and placating their wounded sensibilities. It was a good show, but anyone acquainted with the theater would recognize it as an act.

And then, _she_ caught his eye. There stood Christine, apart from the crowd, not ten feet away from him. She was looking his way, and he allowed himself to pretend, for a moment, that she was smiling at him. Her lips parted, and she started to speak, but Raoul took her arm and distracted her. Erik looked away when the Vicomte tenderly kissed her forehead and led her towards the exit.

"Gentlemen, drinks are on me," Agnelet said in a conspiratorial whisper.

"I don't know about you," Édouard groused, "but I'm famished. My client and I haven't eaten since early this morning. Why don't you open up those tight purse strings of yours, and buy our supper? We can discuss—"

"Another time, perhaps," Erik interrupted. "I'm not hungry, but I need to…make arrangements." In response to their quizzical glances, he added, "There is the matter of a place to stay. I can't very well go back to my old home."

The two lawyers laughed nervously. "We're not letting you off so easily," Agnelet said quickly. "First, you must meet with the proper court officials and learn the details of your sentence. There are papers to sign, necessary documents that you'll need if you are seeking gainful employment. It should only take a few minutes." He sent his clerks away with a nod and a wave of his hand. "Bruguière, you know where to find me after your business is concluded. Monsieur Delacorte, I'll expect you tomorrow morning for a deposition. The _juge d'instruction_ may very well question you, too, so get a good night's sleep." He turned with a flourish, his silk robes billowing as he hurried out of the courtroom.

The bailiff appeared harried, worried by the boisterous crowd. "The parole officer is waiting for you gentlemen," he said anxiously. "Best be moving along."

~*~

As promised, the meeting lasted only a few minutes. Erik scanned the documents before signing them, including a pledge not to leave the city until further notice. Standing trial was one matter--he was even prepared to die for his crimes—but Erik had never felt more like a prisoner than he did at that moment. He had agreed to abide by certain constraints, including staying away from the opera house and anyone affiliated with it. Even though he would not be in jail, he had lost his freedom. Letting his attorney lead him out of the building, he tugged at his collar, and tore away the cravat. "This is damnable," he growled.

"It is difficult," Bruguière agreed, assessing the crowd. "I'm not sure how we'll get out of here."

"Best to go around the west side," the bailiff advised. "They won't be expecting you there. Look for a closet door marked with a zed. Inside it, there's a stairwell that leads to an old tunnel. Follow it, and you'll come out in the Golden Cock tavern four blocks down." He grinned, showing his blackened gums. "Judges have been using it to make a clean getaway for years, whenever there's an unpopular decision or they need to slip out for a nip and a quick bite o' supper. Take a candle from the ledge; we keep a stack of 'em for Their Honors."

"I don't like skulking away," Bruguière complained. "It makes me feel like I've done something wrong."

"If you don't mind, I'll take the tunnel," Erik said softly. "I'd rather avoid the fuss."

"Let's give a statement, and if the mob still wants your head, we can leave through the tunnel."

Erik balked. Darkness stirred…so close, and yet so far.

"Have I steered you wrong? No? Then listen to me now. If we don't give the reporters a good quote, they'll make one up on their own. Better than leaving them to their own imagination."

The bailiff stood aside, and opened the tall doors for the two men. "Quiet!" someone yelled. "He's here! The Phantom of the Opera!"

Bruguière held out his hands, palms down, in an effort to calm the crowd. "Haven't you heard? There is no phantom of the opera!" He said it like a joke, using humor to defuse a powder keg.

"Let him speak!" another man cried. "What do you have to say for yourself, phantom?"

Erik pointed to his throat, and shook his head. It was no use. He'd never be heard above the racket.

"My client has suffered grave injuries at the hands of a mob," the lawyer explained. "Understandably, he's leery of large groups." He stared at the sea of ruffians before them. These men were not strangers to courts of law. "I know you," he said, waving at one of them. He'd defended them before, saved their homes, kept them employed – kept them out of jail, when he could.

He began calling them by name. "Robert…Louis…Philippe…Jean…Martin. We've met before, haven't we? Now, be good lads, and let us pass peaceably."

Remarkably, the crowd settled down. Erik held his head up high as Bruguière guided him across the courtyard, out the gates, and into the Parisian night.

~*~

**Authors' Note:** How do we know so much about jurisprudence, you ask? Research! Typically, we spend three times as long on research as we do on writing, in an effort to ensure historical accuracy. There's nothing more jarring than anachronisms!

For the trial, we spent hours and hours wading through court transcripts and historical documents in French and English. We watched films. We read about the life of Emile Zola and J'accuse. Eventually, we blended modern and historic trials to try to make Erik's trial recognizable to readers.

At this time, French courts allowed anyone who wanted to speak to do so--to present impact statements, as we'd call such testimony today. Trials had less to do with evidence, and more to do with feelings. Also, the prosecution could dismiss witnesses much the way current courts can dismiss jurors. Judges could take jury verdicts into consideration, but they could set them aside if they disagreed with them.

Where the lawyers go wrong is in not deposing witnesses prior to putting them on the stand, but Erik has been tried in the court of public opinion. Apparently, the tribunal and the prosecution thought a guilty verdict was a foregone conclusion and the trial was a matter of formality. Being sent to Devil's Island was a very real possibility for poor Erik.

In any event, we're glad the trial is well received. We wanted to keep the story moving apace, and not get bogged down with the technicalities.

Thank you all for reviewing! Your reviews feed the muse.


	10. Chapter 10

**To Be Loved**

**Chapter 10  
HDKingsbury and MadLizzy  
**

_"You must have a twinkle in your eye, a naughtiness -- and the audience must realize your mind is working faster than your words."_ - Jeremy Brett

-0-0-0-

Christine had arrived at the opera house early. Tonight's performance of Faust would be the last of the season. In the days to come, she would enjoy some much-needed time off, but right now, she wanted to spend some time alone in her dressing room. Tonight was another "pants" role, where she would be singing the part of Siebel, a young man who was Faust's student. The dresser had been by and already had helped her into her costume. Later, as it came closer to curtain time, she would have one of the make up artists help with the final touches. But for now, she was alone, and that was how she wanted it.

In the days following the trial, she had been surrounded by people clamoring for attention. The police wanted statements concerning the managers and the crimes with which they had been charged. Reporters wanted interviews with the woman whose beauty (so they said) pushed a man beyond the brink of reason. And the people she had considered friends—fellow employees of the Opera Populaire—merely wanted their curiosity satisfied. She would be glad to see the curtain fall tonight. Maybe she would go to Perros, to visit her father's grave and to spend some time in quiet contemplation by the shore. The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that time alone was exactly what she needed.

She looked around, once again struck by the fact that even though she had quietly acquiesced to once again play second fiddle to La Carlotta, she had been allowed to keep this room. Closing her eyes, she tried to make some sense out of all that had happened in her relatively short life. Dark emotions overtook her as she contemplated the realization that all the people who had ever been important to her were gone.

It began with a mother she barely remember. According to others, the lady had always been sickly. All she could recall were vague memories of a gentle, bedridden woman who died shortly after Christine's sixth birthday. After that, her father had sold the old farm.

He never had the temperament of a farmer, but was instead drawn to music, and chose to live as a wandering performer, dragging his young daughter along with him. She hadn't really minded that, except when the nights were cold and their only shelter was an old, drafty barn someone had let them use. As they traveled, he regaled his daughter with stories of the _näcken_, male water spirits who played enchanted songs on the violin, luring women and children to drown in lakes or streams, and of the _tomte_, small mythical creatures said to take care of a farmer's home and children. The _tomte_ protected them from misfortune, particularly at night when everyone was asleep. Eventually, Papa succumbed to exhaustion and illness. No doubt, she thought, this had been brought on by their itinerant lifestyle. Now orphaned, Christine was taken in by "Mama" Valérius, an old family friend who always looked after Christine as if she were her daughter.

Life with Mama Valérius provided some much-needed stability. Christine worked hard, and scraped and saved enough money to attend the conservatory. She did not have an exceptional voice, but was told many times that she had great potential--if only she would put more heart into her practice. The day came when Christine graduated. Things were looking up, and upon graduation, she was provided with the chance to sing on the stage of the Opera Populaire, but when Mama Valérius died, she felt so alone, so bereft…utterly abandoned, without a friend in the world. That was when Erik or rather, her Angel of Music, came into her life.

Christine looked across the room and saw the mirror. Memories flooded her mind. She remembered the first time he spoke to her, how she felt both excited and scared, but when he sang, he banished all her fears. He offered to teach her to improve her singing technique, and for months she studied with him – she in her dressing room; he behind the mirror. Then there was the night after the gala, when he finally appeared in person….

She walked over to the mirror, touching it fondly, before hot tears cascaded down her cheeks, spoiling her stage makeup. "Why couldn't you have told me the truth from the start, Erik? All this could have been avoided!"

A knock on the door shattered the silence.

It was Signor Piangi. "May I have a moment of your time, Signorina?"

"One moment, Signor," she called out, straining to keep the anguish out of her voice. She patted her face with a powder puff, blotted her tears one more time, and went to the door. "Come in," she said sweetly, as she opened the door for her unexpected guest.

Piangi stepped across the threshold and shifted his considerable weight from one foot to the other. "I shall come straight to the point," he said, somewhat nervously. "Is there something wrong with your voice?"

His question caught her off guard. "No…why do you ask?" She was certain her voice quavered, but he appeared oblivious to her discomfort.

"During rehearsals, performances, you sound…off. Not like the way you did the night of the Gala or…" he looked around to make sure the door was closed, "…when you were called upon to replace La Carlotta. Then, your voice soared as if on the wings of an angel. But now? You hit the right notes, but there's no feeling, no heart…no soul."

His casual observation hit her hard. What was it Erik had told her about singing? Something about conviction, about putting her soul into her voice, to lift it from a trade to an art form. She tried to think of a way to change the subject. She was uncomfortable with revealing the truth—that with Erik gone, she no longer cared about her music. She looked at Piangi, and saw real concern and kindness in his deep brown eyes. For the first time, she suspected that beneath the tenor's bluster, he was a true gentleman. She smiled sadly. "I'm sure it will pass," she said, evading the question. "At least, you are in fine voice, Signor. I'm relieved that you did not suffer any long-term effects from the…the…"

Piangi noticed how difficult it was for her to finish her sentence. "From the night of the _Don Juan_?" He laughed heartily. "I only wish that I'd had the chance to sing that duet with you! I've been told you were magnificent! And that song? Why…it is a showstopper! It was _magnifico_! They tell me _you_ were _magnifica_."

Christine blushed, wondering who these mysterious "they" were to whom he referred. With all that had happened at that point in the opera, she doubted anybody remembered her singing. "It…it is quite a song."

"Si! Such _fervore_! Such _passione_! I may not have been able to sing on stage with you, but at least we had the rehearsals." He gave her a wink and leaned a little closer. "I enjoyed the rehearsals."

She looked towards the mirror, remembering the performance—with Erik instead of Ubaldo onstage. She heard herself speaking, but felt strangely remote. "I thought you hated the music."

He nodded towards the door. "I did that for her," he said, meaning Carlotta. "She was having trouble with some of the notes. I did not want her to feel alone."

"That was very kind of you, Signor." The truth was, he had struggled with the music, too, and they both knew it. His little joke was endearing.

In the hallway, a woman shrieked his name. "Piangi!" La Carlotta called. "_Caro_! Where are you?"

Piangi grinned. "I must go, Signorina. I am being summoned." He winked again, before opening the door barely wide enough to peek out. Assured that no one was watching, he slipped into the hallway. "Coming, my love!" he called, his light tenor carrying down the hallway.

Christine closed her eyes and tried to remember the night of the performance, when Erik had sung with her. He had touched her with the power of his song in ways that no other man had ever done….

As she put the finishing touches onto her costume, she stared at her reflection in the mirror. She hid the chain holding Raoul's ring under her collar, and wondered if any man would ever touch her the way Erik had.

-0-0-0-

The final performance had left her feeling leaden. She had avoided seeing Raoul for several days by claiming that she needed rest. The truth was, he had begun to irritate her. And now here he was, having insisted upon seeing her. The small parlor of the boarding house where Christine lived had never seemed more confining than it did at this moment.

Madame Moreau had politely served tea, and then quietly retired to her own rooms, despite Christine's invitation that she remain.

It was early evening, and as the shadows lengthened, tension hung in the air like smoke. Raoul set down his cup and saucer and began to pace, rubbing the back of his neck as he collected his thoughts. Finally, he blurted out, "I did what you wanted!"

Christine stirred her tea slowly, watching a thin slice of lemon float on the surface. "What are you talking about?" she asked wearily, as if Raoul's comment were tiresome.

Raoul was incensed by her apparent nonchalance. "Please! Don't act as if you don't know what I'm talking about. I'm talking about perjury. I lied under oath so that your 'teacher' would not be sent to prison…or worse. Although why he shouldn't have been is beyond me!"

"But…I thought that after you'd seen Erik, seen what he has suffered, that you would be more understanding." She was growing increasingly uncomfortable by Raoul's tirade, and astonished by his reaction. "I truly thought you had compassion for him."

Raoul shook his head vigorously. "You were bound and determined to testify that you had willingly gone with that man." He could not bring himself to use the name, "Delacorte." Using a name only humanized the monster, gave him a dignity he did not deserve. "What was I supposed to do? Take to the witness stand and contradict you?"

Her throat constricted as she fought back tears. "I'd hoped that you had a change of heart," she said sorrowfully. She put a lace handkerchief to her lips, looked around the room for a focal point, and struggled not to cry.

Seeing her look so lost, so helpless, was more than Raoul could bear. "Oh, my dear, dear, Christine! I have been a dreadful boor. Please forgive me." He knelt beside her and lifted her chin with his fingertips, so that she would look upon his face, bright and shining and full of hope for the future. "Christine, I am sorry. Truly I am. I keep forgetting how difficult this has been for you – the trial, dealing with Carlotta—"

Christine cut him off short. "Carlotta has not troubled me," she said under her breath.

Seeing genuine concern in his honest eyes, she thought, _He means well. It's only that he has no idea what it is like to be alone, to have to scrimp and save, to have to 'make do' as best as one can_. And then she realized she was not only thinking of Erik, but of her own upbringing. Growing up poor had made her generous with second chances, because--goodness gracious!--she had needed many of them herself. She did her best to shake off the moodiness that threatened to overcome her polite façade, and forced a smile.

"You're right, Raoul. We must put all this behind us," she heard herself say.

He cheered up noticeably, encouraged by her comment. "That's the spirit. Now, why don't you freshen up? I've made reservations for the Café de l'Opéra. It's delightful, and we could both use a change of pace! They say the best cabaret singer in all of Paris is performing tonight. You'd enjoy that, wouldn't you? Hearing someone else sing for a change."

"That's all I ever do," she thought, but she forced herself to be agreeable. After all, his intentions were good. She excused herself to go to her room and change into a formal gown, more suitable for going out in public with Raoul, the Vicomte de Chagny.

Alone in her room, she went about laying out her garments. A glove here, a stocking there…yes, it was all coming together as it should. Then, she opened a drawer in search of a full petticoat, and there it was: The wedding dress that Erik had given her. Mme Moreau had silently cleaned and pressed it before wrapping it in tissue paper and placing it in the wardrobe, where it had remained hidden like a well concealed secret right there in Christine's room, where she had never once given it a thought. She hadn't even noticed it had been taken out for cleaning.

Was it her imagination, or did the faint aroma of Erik's cologne tickle her nose as she fingered a row of fine lace? "I really need to do something with this," she muttered, having no idea what she meant by that, before closing the drawer and returning to the task at hand.

She went to the closet and chose a midnight blue dress with cream-colored trimmings. It was her favorite—it was stylish and complimented her coloring, and she usually felt gay and light-hearted when she wore it. It was one of the few "good" dresses she had, most of her money going towards everyday living expenses. She sat in front of the mirror, debating how to do her hair, and decided on sweeping it up; very chic, she thought, admiring how the style brought out the reddish highlights. Pearl drop earrings and a dainty pearl choker finished off the ensemble, and she was ready to go to supper.

-0-0-0-

The Café de l'Opéra was lit up like Cinderella's ball. Christine noticed exquisite carriages with fine horses pulling up to the entrance. Fashionably dressed gentlemen disembarked in jolly moods, clearly eager for an evening of frivolity. A few were escorting elegantly dressed women wearing tall feathers in their elaborate coiffeurs. She smoothed out the wrinkles in her dress after stepping out of the de Chagny brougham, and hoped her simple gown was presentable.

As if on cue, Raoul spoke up. "You look lovely tonight, Christine. You know, Philippe says that dress makes you look sophisticated. He's right."

Christine felt cold all over, clearly miffed by the implication that she was unrefined. "I didn't know you brother was an expert on ladies' fashions," she said stiffly. Then she softened as old insecurities stole into her thoughts. "Am I really such a country bumpkin, Raoul?"

"That's not what I meant." He smiled disarmingly at her. "I was trying to pay you a compliment."

He always could charm her into dropping her defenses. "I'm sorry, Raoul. I don't know why, but I feel a bit snappish tonight."

"It's the strain you've been under—between your work and the trial, it's a wonder you're still standing on your own feet. It's time you let me take care of you, Christine. I don't know why you feel compelled to work at the opera. Soon, you'll be the patroness of the Opera Populaire and you can forget all these silly troubles." He didn't need to beckon to the wait staff or snap his fingers the way some of the men did. He was a de Chagny. He stood straight and tall, commanding attention, and in no time at all, the maitre d' appeared.

Raoul requested a private dining room near the stage; the doors could be opened to allow them to view the evening's entertainment – or remain closed for privacy, if they wished. He held Christine's chair before seating himself beside her, rather than across the table from her.

"There. This is better," he said as he sat. "Now we can be alone." He reached over and took her hand in his, stroking the back of it with his thumb.

Christine, who normally sat perched on the edge of her chair, leaned away from him. "Raoul," she asked hesitantly, "Are you ashamed of being seen with me?

He averted his eyes and squared his jaw, like a horse champing its bit. "Certainly not."

"I'd be more comfortable in the main dining room," she said firmly. "At least have the doors opened, so that we can be seen."

Raoul's eyes flashed angrily but his voice was cold. "Don't want to be alone with me?"

"It isn't that," Christine rushed to explain. "It's just that...it gives people the wrong idea."

The tips of his ears turned red, and he held her hand a little too tightly. "You care about what people think, after all you've done?

She pulled her hand away. "What have I done, Raoul? Had voice lessons?"

"With a maniac!" he said angrily, his voice loud enough that the wine steward paused before proceeding to uncork an expensive champagne.

They waited in uncomfortable silence as the steward went about his business of opening the wine, tasting it in his silver salver, and then presenting the cork and a sample to the Vicomte. Raoul nodded his acceptance of the wine and dismissed the man at once.

Alone again, Christine and Raoul stared at the table arrangement. It was early April, and a mound of daffodils and lilies were clustered in a silver bowl. They hung their heads over the linen tablecloth, looking for all the world like sad little orphans.

Christine broke the silence after what seemed like an eternity. "Perhaps you'd be more comfortable if we postpone our wedding...our engagement..."

This was not at all how he had imagined spending the evening. Raoul ground his teeth and leaned back in his own chair. "Perhaps we would both be more comfortable." He stared at the ring, which Christine had quietly placed on the table. The large diamond twinkled in the candlelight, mocking him with its coldness.

It was still on the thick gold chain that Raoul had given her – the one he said was strong and would not break. He laughed coldly, realizing that she had never put the ring on her finger. Not the first one, not this one, nor any ring of his. "I wonder what happened to the other one?" he mused, as he toyed with the chain. "The police said it was lost. Maybe it was stolen by the mob." He laughed bitterly. "The bastards probably kept it for themselves. Can't trust anyone these days."

When next she spoke, it was softly, slowly, like a platonic companion smoothing her old friend's riled feathers. "Let's not be cross. We are still friends, aren't we?"

Raoul swirled the effervescent wine in his glass and watched the bubbles rise to the surface and break, disappearing into thin air. He picked up the chain and tucked the ring into his pocket. "Friends," he said woodenly, as if resigning himself to the inevitable.

He motioned to the server to open the doors to their private dining compartment and muttered to himself sarcastically, "Friends."

-0-0-0-


	11. Chapter 11

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 11**

HD and ML  
November 19, 2009

-0-0-0-

_A wretched soul, bruised with adversity,  
We bid be quiet when we hear it cry;  
But were we burdened with like weight of pain,  
As much or more we should ourselves complain._  
**~William Shakespeare**

-0-0-0-

By early May, Erik had become quite comfortable in his apartment on the Rue Tâtons. It had never been a fashionable part of town, and the neighborhood had fallen into tawdriness in its old age. The fact that it was not the kind of place where people asked questions made it all the better.  
The modest surroundings suited his needs, however, and Shambles, or butcher's lane, was far enough away that the stench of the slaughter rarely reached the windows of the top floor where Erik resided.

While the furnishings had the air of faded respectability associated with people and places in decline, Erik lived comfortably. The neighbors left him alone, and didn't seem to notice much less care about his comings and going. All the better for a man unaccustomed to prying eyes.

A private staircase ensured that he could slip in and out unobserved, though it was hardly necessary for Erik to skulk about. Cleared of all criminal charges, he could do anything he wished, go anywhere he wanted – except the Opera Populaire, a fact that stuck in his craw and aggravated him no end. Not only was he itching to get his hands on some of the fortune that he hoped remained hidden in his former domicile far below the theater, but there were a few personal items he missed, items of no monetary value but that meant something to him. It was his intention, after meeting with Bruguière to discuss his business affairs, to rectify that sorry situation.

Édouard Bruguière's office was in a decidedly better section of town. He often worked late into the evening, so it was no trouble at all for his masked client to schedule his appointments after most folks had gone home for the night. Usually, the quiet man arrived precisely at the stroke of ten, when the streets were clear and the other offices were empty. Tonight, however, Erik was early, indicating an eagerness to conclude his business. He tapped on the door to the attorney's private office, and when there was no response, let himself in, stepping lightly to avoid interrupting the attorney at his work—or any unpleasant surprises.

The attorney appeared oblivious, concentrating on the mound of papers before him. Erik stood silent as a ghost, while Bruguière finished reading the document in his hands. Without looking up, he asked, "So, is it time for our meeting already?"

"You might at least pretend to be surprised, or taken off guard," Erik groused. He shrugged off his cloak and sat in the chair opposite the desk, before carefully taking off the wide-brimmed hat he always wore. "Your lack of trepidation is bad for my reputation, you know."

"After all these months, I've gotten used to your pussy footing," Bruguière shot back. He pushed the document forward, and leaned back in his chair while Erik glanced at it. "Have you considered the offer?"

A low rumble indicated a growl of dissatisfaction. "Who'd want to read my memoirs?" he asked, mocking himself.

"The publisher seems to think a lot of people would be interested in learning your side of the story." Bruguière stroked his chin. "He's willing to pay generously. And besides, if you don't give the public a story—"

"Someone will make one up. Yes, I know. I'm familiar with your philosophy."

"As your attorney, I must point out that there are many people who want to know more about you. By publishing your memoirs, you can control what they learn. If you leave it to the press, some eager young pup will start sniffing around, and he may catch wind of something that you'd…well, something you'd rather not have him uncover."

Erik laughed mirthlessly. "Have you so little faith in me, Bruguière? What makes you think I have any secrets from you?"

"Call it a hunch." He opened a drawer and pulled out a stack of envelopes bound together with string. "These are from your admirers," he said, tossing the bundle across the desk. "Go ahead and read them," he said, as Erik regarded them with disdain. "They are inquiries, sent to me since no one knows how to reach you. Most are from women offering to help you get back on your feet. Some of them were in the audience the night of _Don Juan_, and they are interested in your music. At least one is a woman of means; she wants to become your patroness and provide you with a generous stipend, if you will return to composing. Some of the others are…of a personal nature."

"There are always lonely women who think they 'understand' me, or who want to 'help' me somehow. They want to make me the man I was 'meant' to be," Erik said, bored by the conversation. "They are wasting their time."

"I disagree, but, putting that aside, what about your music? It could help support you."

"My days of composing are over," Erik said, as he rubbed his left arm. The wound had healed, but the injury often ached and his fingers lacked the dexterity they once had, especially when the weather was about to change. "Besides, I'm not destitute…at least, not yet. I have enough to live on for a year or so, if I am careful."

"What will you do when it runs out?"

Frowning, Erik held his arm tightly. "I suppose my days of manual labor are over, too. No ditch digging for me." He stared out the window. In the distance, a flash of lightning lit up the sky. Several seconds passed before the roll of thunder shook the window in its frame. "I'll consider the memoirs," Erik said quietly, "on one condition. There will be no editor."

"Don't you even want to know how much it pays? You could compare it to Comtesse de Thénardier's offer, or accept both. They aren't mutually exclusive."

"Édouard, to hear you talk, you are only interested in one thing: My money. Didn't I compensate you well for representing me?"

"Most generously, Erik. But don't forget, the court has made me your guardian. It is my duty to ensure that you remain an honest man, at least for the next five years. After that, you can go find an opera to haunt, if it makes you happy."

Delacorte heaved a weary sigh, indicating that he found the subject tiresome. "Speaking of opera houses, what about Firmin and Andre? I heard that they were convicted. Has the sentence been read yet?"

Bruguière pointed at the evening paper perched on the edge of his desk. "Firmin will spend the rest of his days blaming you for his crimes, I'm afraid. His final statement to the court was a scathing indictment of your complicity in his schemes. Fortunately, your name has already been cleared in this matter."

"I have you to thank for that." Erik dipped his head slightly, as much of a bow as pride would allow. "Why are you frowning?"

"Firmin is on his way to prison, but Andre is another matter. A few hours ago, I received word that he has killed himself."

Erik rose and stood by the window, watching the storm. "He wouldn't have lasted in prison," he said softly. "He was a …delicate man."

~*~

Later that night, church bells were tolling the hour. Erik stopped and counted. Midnight. The storm that had rumbled over the city two hours ago had spent itself in a brief but violent manner, leaving behind the scent of rain-cleaned air. He gave a quick glance up and down the street before stepping out of the shadows. His knowledge of this part of Paris was vast, and he knew which streets were usually empty at this hour, and which ones to avoid. The thunderstorm had helped, sending pedestrians and traffic scurrying off the streets, leaving in its wake mucky puddles that Erik took pains to avoid. No use getting his shoes wet. Taking the necessary precautions, he continued on his way unseen to the rear of the opera house. Once there, he let himself in via the secret entrance that only he knew.

Inside the darkened foyer, he paused for several seconds, allowing his ears to become attuned to the silence of the nighttime, listening for any sounds that would alert him to the presence of others. Unless there was a performance or gala of some sort – of which there was neither tonight – the building was normally empty by this time, but that didn't mean that the occasional stagehand or ballet rat might not be around, taking advantage of this emptiness for a late-night assignation. There was also the possibility that the new management had hired a night watchman.

Dark and quiet as a tomb, Erik noted with satisfaction as he quietly made his way along the corridors, comfortable with the knowledge that he was alone. From under his cloak, he pulled out the ancient tin candle lantern he'd brought with him and lit it. Moving faster now, he made his way down the hallway paused by a closet that disguised one of several access ways that led to the cellars below. He smiled to himself, reveling in the knowledge that he knew this part of the opera house like the back of his hand, and chose a route to his former home that did not require punting or swimming across the underground lake.

Several minutes later, he found himself at his destination. Knowing what to expect did not lessen his dismay at the carnage that greeted him. Three months had passed since the mob had hunted him down, howling for his blood. His lips curled at the memory of that fateful night, and of how the mob had reminded him of mindless peasants hunting down a monster. He laughed sardonically. All that had been missing were pitchforks and torches. No wait; there had been torches.

He walked around what remained of his little house by the lake, his shoes crunching over broken china and splinters of wood. Whatever else one could say about them, Erik had to agree that the mob had been thorough. There wasn't a single item left intact. From the largest pieces of furniture to the smallest bits of bric-a-brac, all was shattered. His heart sank when he saw the safe that had held the bulk of his ill-gotten gains, smashed open and ransacked.

He was more disgusted than upset, however, accepting that most of the items could be replaced, eventually. It was only money, and he'd never had trouble acquiring it. And now, there was this contract to publish his memoirs. He walked around what had once been a comfortable suite of living quarters, shaking his head. There was nothing down here to which he had a sentimental attachment. He stopped. Well, not quite. The pitiful remains of his organ, which had taken him weeks to bring down here piece by unassembled piece, caused a brief catch in his breathing. But even that could be replaced. No, there was nothing here worth mourning, except…

That's when he remembered the few items that were important to him and why he had risked violating his parole to come here tonight. He rushed to the ruins of what he'd referred to as his Louis-Philippe room, and to the hidden wall safe, that thankfully the mob had overlooked. That Erik had disguised it to look like the rest of the stone wall had helped conceal it. Quickly he worked the mechanism that revealed the hiding place and withdrew an odd assortment of items – a ribbon taken from Christine Daaé's dressing room, a lace-edged handkerchief she had once dropped, a worn ballet slipper that had been tossed aside, and a small bundle of letters she had written to her Angel of Music. The sight of her delicate handwriting affected him more strongly than he had expected. Painful memories threatened to overwhelm him and he sought the broken remnants of a chair so that he could sit down and contain the rush of emotions that handling these objects called forth.

He stared at the bits of fabric and paper…but they were more than that. They were bits of Christine herself, letters filled with her innocence and purity. From the day she arrived little over a year ago, newly graduated from the conservatory, Erik had found himself drawn to her, in spite of his vow to forsake the world of the living and confine himself to the bowels of the opera house. Unlike so many others in the company who viewed the world through jaded eyes, Christine had been a breath of fresh air. Nothing seemed to trouble her. Even the tantrums of La Carlotta had been unable to upset her equilibrium; instead, the temperamental diva's often harsh words rolled off of her like water off a duck's back. Instead of responding in kind, as so many others had attempted in the past, Christine had smiled demurely and kept whatever thoughts she had to herself.

That was not to say that Mademoiselle Daaé was a saint. Oh no, she had her faults, the same as any other 19-year-old young lady did. From time to time, she'd exhibited a stubborn streak, and she could pout and stomp her foot with the best of them. Only when Christine did so, it somehow seemed…sweet.

Perhaps it was that fey quality she exuded, the impression that while physically she was in the here-and-now, her mind was a million miles away. Erik could not help but chuckle softly. This lack of focus might explain why she'd graduated from the conservatory with only average marks. There was little doubt that Christine would have remained a permanent fixture in the chorus had he not intervened.

The others, the so-called experts, had not heard it, but to Erik's ear, it had been obvious from the start that the young woman was a diamond in the rough. What she had needed was motivation, and after considering for many weeks how he might provide this incentive, the girl herself revealed the method to him when he overheard her praying to her late father, asking him to send her the Angel of Music.

And so had begun a strange and tangled relationship, little over a year ago.

He placed his elbows on his knees and cradled his forehead in his hands, fighting back tears. The night he had tried to play Don Juan to Christine's Aminta came back to him with a vengeance. He burned with shame as he remembered how frightened she'd been, how he had terrified her by dragging her off the stage. Yet through it all, she found the courage to overcome her fear and tell him that he was not alone. Her words continued to ring in his ears.

"Pitiful creature of darkness, what kind of life have you known?" she had asked.

But he had no answer for her. How could he have ever told her the truth? She was of the light, and he was of darkness.

And then…the kiss. Two kisses, actually. The first was pure, like an angel's kiss. The second? It was as if the world had been set ablaze when she kissed him that second time. That one had been no pure, chaste maiden's kiss, but the kiss of a lover. In that moment, his heart, that he had once believed made of stone, had broken. With that second kiss, she had shattered his reserves, made him see himself for the craven creature that he was. And when he opened his eyes and looked in hers, saw the trust in them, he knew he could never, ever keep her with him. She belonged above, with the young man she loved.

Had he not been lost in his own thoughts and completely self-absorbed in his anguish, he would have heard the light footsteps approaching.

"So, you've come back?"

Erik jerked around, his hand ready to retrieve the pistol tucked in his pocket. No Punjab lasso this time; if trouble came looking for him, he was sure that a well-aimed bullet would be more effective than a length of rope or a piece of catgut. But he needn't have worried. It was Mme Giry. He relaxed his guard slightly but not completely. He and the ballet mistress shared a long and tangled history, but so much had happened recently, he wasn't sure what to expect from her.

"What are you doing down here? Have you come again to offer me sanctuary from the prying eyes of the world above?" he demanded brusquely, unwilling to reveal the depths of his emotions. He stood, calling upon his Phantom persona in an attempt to intimidate Mme Giry, but it didn't work. That had always been the problem; the woman was immune to his threats and posturing.

Mme Giry looked about at the debris. "No doubt that same thing you are doing down here, _Monsieur le Fantôme_," she replied lightly. "Assessing the damage. I have not been down here since…that night."

"Why do you care? As I recall, you're the one who sent de Chagny down here. There's no other way he would have found my house. And after him came the mob."

"Somebody had to prevent you from doing even more harm," she said, casting a baleful glare at him. "You'd gone too far this time, Erik. You tried to kill Piangi…"

"If I had truly wanted to kill him, he wouldn't be strutting around like an over-stuffed peacock today." Erik looked for something for her to sit on, and found the remains of another chair. "Care for a seat?" he asked mockingly, dragging it to the center of the room. "That is what a gentleman does when a lady enters the room, isn't it? Offers her a seat?"

"Oh, do be quiet," she said.

Her refusal to be intimidated broke the tension between the two of them, and Erik couldn't help but chuckle. The woman had nerve, he'd give her that. "Do you mind if I?" he asked, and resumed his seat. "Now answer me, if you will: To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit? And how did you know I was here? I took every precaution to ensure that I wasn't followed."

"I didn't follow you, Erik. I've been waiting for you to return to the opera house."

"My parole is with the provision that I do not come near this place."

"Yet here you are." Erik ignored her jibe, which only made her grin. "I knew that sooner or later, you'd return and tonight, here you are. This is why I took up residence in my rooms above, soon after your acquittal." She gestured upwards. "I used the excuse of working late. After all the others left, I would sleep in the evenings, knowing that when you finally came, it would be in the dead of night."

"So glad I didn't disappoint you," he muttered.

Mme Giry smiled a crooked grin. "No, you didn't, although I was beginning to wonder when so many weeks had passed and still no sign of you."

"Perhaps I should have waited longer. Sooner or later, you'd have grown tired of your self-imposed task."

"Maybe. But I knew you had to return."

"I did? Why?"

"For those," she said, nodding towards the items he held in his hands. "Your keepsakes from Christine."

"Am I so predictable, then?"

Mme Giry laughed openly this time. "Only to me, Erik. Only to me."

Erik exhaled slowly. "Well, as long as you are here, you may as well know that this is my last visit. The only reason I returned, as you so accurately surmised, was to pick up a few personal items. Once my affairs are in order, I shall be leaving Paris."

A frown crossed her regal face. "Where will you be going?"

"I think it best if I keep that bit of information to myself."

"What if I need to contact you?"

"Contact me?" Erik shook his head. "Why on earth would you need to contact me?"

"To inform you that the new managers were planning to increase your monthly salary?" she suggested impudently.

"I'll consider your request, Madame. Perhaps at some point in the future, when I'm feeling secure in my new habitation, I'll let you know."

"See to it that you do, Erik," Mme Giry admonished.

"Yes, ma'am," he said sarcastically, rising from the chair and leaving the house. Mme Giry followed close behind, making sure he left the building before letting herself out. Never again would Erik's music fill the cavernous undergrounds of the opera house.

The silence was staggering.

-0-0-0-


	12. Chapter 12

**Chapter 12  
November 19, 2009**

**HD & ML**

_Things that were hard to bear are sweet to remember._ ~Seneca

Nothing felt right. At night, she tossed and turned, and during the day, she could barely concentrate. Christine felt out of sorts, now that the opera season was over and she had nothing to distract her from dwelling on her worries. She decided that what she needed was to get away from Paris and city life in general. She was still, she told herself, a country girl at heart who missed the peace and quiet of rural life…and maybe some time to think things out, sort out her feelings. Surprisingly, she found that she was not as upset over calling off her engagement to Raoul as she thought she would be. She wondered. Logically, Raoul was the perfect choice for a husband with his wealth and status, but could it be that her heart had never really been involved?

There was also the matter of unfinished personal business with her teacher. Several times, she had tried to contact Erik. Their encounter at the courthouse following the rendering of the verdict had been brief, and there was so much more that she wanted to say to him. At the very least, she wanted to thank him for all he had done for her; even more, she needed to let him know she forgave him for his mistakes. She also knew she should say goodbye: He had told her he loved her, and though he had frightened her and threatened Raoul, he wasn't a monster. He had been her friend for nearly a year, and he deserved to be treated civilly—regardless of the way their friendship had ended.

Christine had no idea where he was living these days, and had visited Monsieur Bruguière's office on several occasions to deliver letters she had written to Erik, but there had been no replies. Perhaps it was for the best, she thought. Erik apparently wanted to put the whole shameful experience behind him and start anew; maybe she should take his unspoken advice and do the same.

-0-0-0-

"Mme Moreau, I wanted to let you know that I shall be going away for a few days." Christine was in the parlor with the landlady where the two of them were indulging in an afternoon cup of tea. During the off-season, she could relax and spend a little more time with her landlady. Since the death of Mama Valérius over a year ago, it was Mme Moreau to whom Christine turned when she wanted the companionship and advice of an older woman. "I've been saving money from my salary for this."

Mme Moreau thought it a good idea. "Yes, some time away from here, away from all those reporters and nosey gossips is just what you need. I know it's been almost two months since the trial, but it has taken its toll on you. You're pale and tired these days; you need to get the roses back in your cheeks."

Christine smiled. "I'm glad you approve."

"Where will you be going?"

"To Perros."

"Oh, it's lovely along the Breton coast," the landlady agreed. "Have you ever been there before?"

Christine gestured in the affirmative. "Yes. My father and I lived there that last couple of years of his life. In fact, it's where he's buried. I have been lax in paying my respects, which is another reason I am going there."

Mme Moreau understood. "It's a difficult time you've been through recently. I'm only sorry it ended with you and your beau calling off your engagement."  
"I'm not," she replied, surprising herself with her candor. "Raoul is a very nice man. He'll make some woman a very good husband…just not me. We move in different circles. I grew up a farmer's daughter. He's an aristocrat. No, it would never have worked."

Madame clucked and tutted like the proverbial mother hen. "Well, you're young. There's still plenty of time for you to find the right man."

Christine sniffed. "Who needs men? My life is full as it is. They only seem to complicate matters."

Mme Moreau only nodded but said nothing.

-0-0-0-

The train ride had been uneventful. Christine had spent the extra coins for a private compartment and was glad of it. She was tired of being the center of attention. All she wanted now was privacy and anonymity. As the train pulled out of the station, she gazed out her window, watching the station grow smaller and smaller, until it disappeared altogether. She continued watching as the engine picked up steam and the cityscape flew past her, buildings blurring and then thinning out until they turned into a rural countryside. By the time they pulled into the station at the seaside town of Perros, her mood had begun to lift. No longer was she thinking about the opera, or about Raoul. She was thinking about her father, and how much she missed him.

At Perros, she stayed at the Inn of the Setting Sun, a quaint country inn that looked out onto the ocean. It was near the rose-colored beaches that made Perros famous, surrounded by granite boulders that stood guard like silent sentinels. Once she was settled in, Christine decided it was time to visit her father's resting place. It was a beautiful, warm day late in May, perfect for a solitary picnic. With a small basket in one hand, and a blanket draped over the other arm, she headed out.

A short walk brought her to the gates of the churchyard. It was neat in appearance, with the look of a place that was well tended. It did not take her long to find her father's modest grave. Kneeling in front of the simple headstone, she said a silent prayer.

She recalled her visit to her father's grave last year. Then, she had been confused, troubled, and wanted to be alone. Her cheeks burned with embarrassment as she remembered hearing what she had thought was an enchanted violin playing "The Resurrection of Lazarus." In her naivety, she had believed it was a sign from her father, that he had sent her the Angel of Music.

But it hadn't been an Angel. Raoul's sudden and – she finally admitted to herself – rather unwelcomed appearance had dispelled any doubts as to that. No, it had been no Angel. It had been Erik. What was it he had he called her? Wandering child? Yes, she had been a wandering child, lost and helpless, looking for someone to provide her with guidance. Sadness came over her.

_Why didn't you tell me the truth, Erik? Why did you have to trick me, to play upon my foolish superstitions? _

Then she remonstrated herself. It was wrong to put all the blame on Erik. After all, hadn't she encouraged this charade? Wasn't he merely providing her with what she had wanted, a fairy-tale come to life? Well, she was past that sort of thinking.

With tears in her eyes, she spread out her blanket next her father's grave and placed flowers in front of the headstone. As she sat down, memories flooded her mind. She remembered her childhood, and the beginning of her father's long illness….

-0-0-0-

_Eight years earlier near Uppsala_

_It was the day of the _Midsommarafton_ – the Midsummer's Eve festival – and twelve-year-old Christine Daaé, along with her father, was attending the celebrations that were being held in a village north of Uppsala. She was at that awkward half-child, half-woman stage that left her feeling self-conscious. That she was wearing new clothes didn't help either, articles for which her father had spent hard-earned coins, all so that she would be pretty this day. She tugged at her fitted vest, beautifully decorated with embroidered flowers, that she wore over a snow-white blouse and at the brightly striped apron she wore over her new skirt. She wasn't used to new clothes, most of the time making do with hand-me-downs given to her by kind-hearted farmer folk who loved to listen to her sing to the accompaniment of her father's fiddle._

_The festival of Midsummer's Eve, which marked the longest day of the year—the night when the sun never truly set—was very special in a land like Sweden, where the summers were all too brief. Tonight, the sun would remain just above the horizon leaving the land in a kind of twilight during the nighttime hours. The old people would say that this was one of the days of the year when magic was strongest. Herbs picked at this time were said to be more potent than at any other time, and spring waters were bestowed with special healing properties missing from them the rest of the year. It was also a time to look into auguries that would foretell the future, and many a young girl took part in rituals that were supposed to tell her who she was going to marry._

_Christine looked around at raucous scene, feeling left out. All around her was singing, dancing, eating, drinking and general merry making. These people knew each other, but though welcome, she and her father were strangers. No, that wasn't quite true. Everyone knew of Papa Daaé – he was the best fiddler in all the land, and no festival was complete without his music, and while he made friends easily, Christine was more withdrawn. Throughout the day, young people came up to her, inviting her to join in their games, but she had declined, preferring to stay near her father. Papa Daaé had not been well of late; his cough had gotten worse and Christine had it in her head that something bad would happen if she strayed too far from him. She had already lost her mother; the thought of losing her father was frightening._

_"Nonsense," Papa said when she told him this. He smiled at his daughter indulgently and gave her a quick hug. She was, as the old saying went, the apple of his eye. He doted upon her, gave her all the love a father could give. But he was beginning to worry that she spent too much time in his company. She would be a young lady soon. It was time she started mingling more with people her own age._

_"Of course you should go play with the young folks. Your papa doesn't need a babysitter."_

_"But Papa, what if your cough comes back? Who will fetch you a glass of water?" his daughter asked, worry in her voice._

_"If I become thirsty, I'm sure one of these good people here will bring me something to drink." And he picked up his bow and played a little ditty on his fiddle. Next to loving his daughter, Papa loved music. He played every kind of instrument, from fiddles to intricate _latfiol_ and other folk instruments. Over the years, his reputation had spread widely through the district which is how he came to be playing for special occasions such as today's. "See?" he said. "I'm feeling much better. It is summer. The warm air eases the aches in these old bones of mine."_

_Christine was not so sure, but knew it was no good arguing the point. Her father was a gentle but stubborn man, and she gave up trying to convince him of what was best for him. She wandered near where the _majstång_, the maypole, had been raised. Music and laughter floated in the air, and around the green-covered pole, traditional ring-dances were taking place, much to the delight of the children. She had once asked her father why it was referred to as a maypole even though the month was June._

_"Some say the custom was introduced by the German merchants who visited Sweden many years ago," he had explained. "This may be so. Germany is a much warmer place. But here in Sweden, it's impossible to find the necessary greens and flowers to decorate the pole in May. So some smart-thinking farmer decided that we should put up the pole in June when the weather is nicer. Nobody bothered to change the name is all."_

_Nearby stood several of the village girls, all in their late teens, talking animatedly about heading out into the nearby woods to pick flowers. They were a friendly group, and when they saw Christine standing alone, they waved and invited her to join them._

_"Where are we going?" Christine asked._

_The oldest one, whose name was Karah, explained. "We are going into the woods where we will split up, each of us going our own way. There, we look for flowers. We will each pick a bouquet with nine different kinds of flowers. Just don't go too far; keep the music and the festival within sight, so you don't get lost."  
_

"_What will we do with the flowers?" Christine asked._

_The other girls giggled. Karah gave Christine a look of surprise. "You mean, you don't know? Didn't your mother ever tell you about picking flowers on I?"_

_Christine looked down, embarrassed. "My mother died when I was young."_

_The giggling stopped, and the other girls suddenly felt sorry for her._

_"We pick these flowers for our dream bouquet," one of them said, and they all started talking at once, telling how girls and young women were supposed to pick nine different species of flowers and lay them under their pillows. At night, their future husbands would appear to them in a dream._

_Karah pulled Christine aside, treating her like a younger sister. "You want to know what your husband will look like, don't you?"_

_Christine admitted that she had not given much thought to marriage. "I'm only twelve," she said, realizing it was no excuse and suddenly worried that she was over the hill._

_The older girl smiled knowingly. "That doesn't matter. It's never too soon to start thinking about who you want for your husband." She tilted her head in the direction of a strapping youth, who happened to turn his head at the same moment and gave Karah a rakish wink. Boldly, Karah winked back. "That's Sten," she said. "I've got my eye on him, and tonight, I'll find out if he will be my husband."  
_

"_Does it really work?" Christine asked, troubled that she might not dream._

_"You'll never know unless you try it."_

_Christine hesitated, and then thought, why not? It was all in fun. Nobody really expected her to dream of her future husband, not at her age._

_And so the girls slipped away from the celebrations. With all the eating and drinking that was going on, no one would notice that they'd gone._

_The sun was low on the horizon and the woods were filled with strange and weird shadows. A warm breeze from the south would occasionally pick up and then die down, rattling the branches overhead._

_Christine walked carefully, heeding Karah's advice about not straying too far. As she headed deeper into the forest, she heard the night birds sing and the crickets chirp, and wondered if there were any wolves lurking nearby, waiting to snatch a tasty young girl for his dinner. From time to time, she thought she saw something moving, then laughed at her silly fears when she saw that it was one of the other girls._

_"The sooner you pick the flowers," she told herself, "the sooner you can leave these spooky woods."_

_When all had finished their self-appointed tasks, they met again at the clearing at the edge of the forest. They sat in a circle and compared their bouquets, admiring the blooms and congratulating each other for picking what were surely the most magical flowers in the woods. They exchanged gossip about whom they secretly liked, and of whom they hoped to dream. Christine had no such expectations, but played along, joining in the game of declaring who was the most handsome boy in the village._

_By midnight, the party was still in full swing. The girls had rejoined the others, but none wanted to stay much longer. Let the adults and the youngsters remain; all they wanted to do was go to their beds and dream. Christine quickly checked on her father, relived to find him happily fiddling away. She stopped to say good night to him, then rushed off to the room they were sharing while staying in the village. There, she put her bouquet under her pillow and laid down._

_She closed her eyes, but was sure sleep would never come to her. Not tonight. Not with all the noise coming from outside. But eventually she drifted off. The next morning, all the girls gathered to talk about their dreams. Christine let the others think she had not been visited by a dream. That's all right, they told her. You're still young; try again next year._

_What she hadn't wanted to admit was that she had dreamed, not of a handsome farmer's son, but of a man whose face was partially obscured by a mist. In her dream, she had been standing by a vast, glassy lake. And on the lake had been a boat. A man, dressed all in black, had stood by the boat, inviting her to come with him. When she looked into his face, all she could see were his mismatched eyes._

_And then he sang to her, and it was as if one of God's angels had come to earth._

-0-0-0-

Christine woke with a start, momentarily confused. Then she remembered where she was, and realized that she had dozed off. But why had that particular memory come back to her? She had forgotten about that dream…but now she wondered. Could it be that, eight years ago on midsummer's eve, she had dreamed about Erik? No, she scolded herself. It had only been the influence of her father, who had always been filling her head with stories of angels and supernatural beings. Her dream was only the tale of the _näcken_ clouding her memory. It had been her father's favorite story, about a masculine water spirit that lured women and children into a lake with the music of his magical violin. He had told it often, but it was only a story: Only that, and nothing more.

"That's why I so easily believed Erik was the Angel of Music," she said to herself, scoffing at the idea. She shuddered, an evening chill creeping into her bones as the afternoon shadows lengthened across the graveyard. She pushed the recollection out of her mind as she opened her picnic basket and withdrew a flask of water. The cool, refreshing liquid brought clarity to her thoughts. It wasn't sensible, she told herself. There were no such things as portents. It was just a children's story.

Still, she couldn't help but wonder, "Could it be true? That, for me, Erik really is my destiny? He did say he was my fate…"

And now, she was more confused than ever.

-0-0-0-

Dressed in black from head to toe, the night enveloped him, kept him safe from prying eyes. Ever since _Le Matin_ had begun serializing the story of his life, he'd been harassed by curiosity seekers whenever he left his modest apartment. Why did they hound him? Weren't there any other masked men in Paris? In the past, he'd been able to get around in broad daylight, if he was careful to avoid calling attention to himself, but with the sudden infamy of the scandal at the opera house, the ensuing trials, and now this celebrity, he felt like a rat on the run.

Erik cursed himself for ever having agreed to write his memoirs, and he cursed Bruguière for not insisting on limitations to the publication rights. To be fair, his attorney-agent would never have imagined that notoriety could change to fame in so short a time. Overnight, Erik went from hiding to save his sorry skin to hiding to preserve his privacy–and to spare his pride.

It was difficult enough to put his story on paper, difficult beyond words to know that people were reading it. Still the money was good, and he'd learn to swallow his pride even if it killed him. His life was an open book, and, as Édouard had warned, others claiming to know the Opera Ghost had begun to sell their own sordid versions of the tale. _Le Matin_ had exclusive rights to Erik's autobiography, though, and sales were soaring. When the weekly edition appeared on the streets, newsboys were mobbed by the public, eager for the latest installment. Erik, for one, would be glad when the last chapter had been written, read, and forgotten.

Lately, for his own amusement, he'd taken to writing fantastic tales of adventure featuring derring-do and bravado, thinking that the public would lose interest once they realized he was putting them on, but his plan had backfired. Sales had gone through the roof, and letters from lonely-hearts had doubled. The last time he visited Bruguière, he had tossed a bundle of them into the wastepaper basket on his way out the door, without even looking at them.

He longed for a new scandal that would divert attention from himself, and toyed with the idea of arranging one himself, if need be. Perhaps a caper at the Louvre would be the ticket. He could see it now: A missing masterpiece would certainly draw attention away from a mere opera ghost. It was tempting…

But there she was, always in the back of his mind. What would Christine think of him, if he threw away this chance at rebuilding his life, if he rebuked the second chance she had arranged for him? She had been the conduit for the ledgers that had absolved him of guilt; had persuaded Bruguière to defend him; she had even testified in his defense. How could he even think of betraying her trust now, when he had come so far?

Like as not, she was no doubt still on her honeymoon in some bright and sunny land, while he was skulking about in the shadows of Parisian streets, late at night. He hadn't been able to bring himself to buy a paper, not to see his own name in print and certainly not to read about her wedding to that boy. He was better off not thinking too much about Christine, and certainly, he was better off not thinking too much about her honeymoon. He rounded the corner with a heavy heart, surprised at the lamplight that spilled out onto the sidewalk from a storefront.

In the arrondissement where Erik lived, evidence abounded of Parisians fallen on hard times. Occasionally, a working woman beckoned to him, offering him a moment's pleasure in a back alley. These were among the worst members of his new community--diseased, dirty whores more disgusting than desirable. One of the less distasteful signs of impending poverty was the selling of personal possessions; pawnshops thrived on the fringes of neighborhoods such as this one.

Tonight, a shopkeeper was up late, counting the profit he made off others' misfortunes. Erik imagined him pocketing gold while cheerfully selling off the meager treasures from some new vagrant, a worn out man seeking a few coins for bread or a roof for his family. Most of the items were of questionable origin: Handkerchiefs, costume jewelry, worn purses, and meerschaum pipes spoke of petty theft, while furniture and dishes told of the harsh realities of losing one's home. He imagined that the people who came there, bearing their paltry belongings, had few options and little hope for the future. It was depressing. He had known poverty, and had vowed never to be destitute again – which reminded him of the memoirs. He cursed again for his lack of foresight, for not having squirreled away more of his fortune before his world came crashing down upon him.

In this dour frame of mind, he saw it in the window: a nykelharpa, a musical instrument popular among the Scandinavian immigrants. Erik knew about nykelharpa. Similar to the hurdy-gurdys the gypsies touted, they were fondly regarded by Swedes in particular as ancient instruments used in folk music. A keyed string instrument similar to a fiddle, it was also bowed. He felt the ache in his left arm as he imagined pressing the keys to change the pitch of the strings, and then realized it might be possible for him to play it. He couldn't hold a violin in the proper position, not yet, as the muscles in his left arm had not regained the full range of motion that was necessary, and he refused to hold it in the downward position of the gypsies. This nykelharpa would be secured by a strap around his neck, and he could sit while playing it. He could lower it in his lap to depress the keys with his left hand without raising his arm at all. Yes, this instrument had possibilities.

He peered through the window of the pawnshop, and, seeing no one, he tried the knob. Locked. He glanced around to make certain no one was watching him before sliding the skeleton key into place, and opened the door only enough to slip inside, quiet as a ghost. He tiptoed to the display and lifted up the instrument softly, gently, without making a sound.

"May I help you?" called the shopkeeper, loud and clear.

Erik nearly jumped out of his skin. It had been years since anyone had snuck up on him! "I was just looking at this…thing. What is it?" he asked cagily. He kept the masked side of his face away from the man, to avoid startling him.

"I thought I locked the door," began the pawnbroker. "Oh, well…I must be getting old." He rubbed his hands together like a greedy miser. "That, sir, is a Norwegian violin, the best of its kind. Note the gold work…," he said, pointing at the brass fittings, "…and the precious pearl inlay." He indicated carved bone, which Erik recognized not as mother-of-pearl, but as probable remnants of some Swedish craftsman's supper long ago. It was not Norwegian, but Swedish; of that, he was certain. No matter. It was hardly a museum specimen. It was only a simple folk piece, practically worthless.

He turned the dusty instrument in his hands, oblivious to the prattle of the salesman. He noted the carved figures of men and women playing similar instruments, running the length of the neck, and smiled at the whimsical carving of the sound holes as Valentine hearts. This had been a work of love, perhaps from a young man wooing a woman. It appealed to his romantic nature, and he let his mind wander to the tales of the North that Christine used to tell him. There she was again, Christine, always in the back of his mind. Before he knew it, a sigh escaped him.

"I'd let you have it for a fair price," the man was saying. "I can see that you like it. A fine instrument like that belongs in the hands of someone who knows how to use it."

Erik depressed a few keys, noting the sixteen strings. "Three for melody, one for drone, and the rest for resonance," he muttered, before turning his attention to the bow.

Without being asked, the shopkeeper produced a lump of rosin. "No need," Erik said. "There's plenty on the horse hair." He tightened the bow, looking down its length, and noted it was straight and flexible. He let it dance across the strings, digging in when he wanted to see how far it would take him—and his music. It was a crisp tone, pleasant enough, perfect for the kind of music the simple people enjoyed. He dug in, switching to baroque music, and lost himself in the moment. When he looked up, the shopkeeper was standing in front of him with his eyes closed, an unaffected smile of pure joy lighting up his pudgy face.

"Where did you get this?" Erik asked, breaking the silence. He had underestimated the instrument. Though it had bright overtones, it was also capable of producing warm, dark notes – the full scale. In other words, it suited him perfectly.

The man shook his head to clear the cobwebs from it. "A long time ago, a man brought it in. He said it had belonged to a great musician."

Erik raised his eyebrows. No doubt, this was a pretense for raising the price. "And who was this musician?" he asked skeptically.

A shrug indicated there would be no further information. "How much?" Erik asked, setting the instrument down. He turned his back on the shopkeeper, feigning disinterest in the nykelharpa.

To his surprise, the man answered in a whisper. "Pay me what you can."

Erik peered at him from the corner of his eye, still not letting the man see his mask.

"I paid three francs for it. If you can afford that, I am satisfied." To Erik's quizzical response, he replied, "I was right when I said it belongs in your hands. I've never heard such beautiful music before tonight." He cleared his throat, coming back to his business sense. "Besides, it's been sitting in that window for years. I'd like to get rid of it."

"I want the case, too," Erik said, pulling five francs from his wallet. He knew he had to be careful with his money, as his profit from the memoirs was only a modest fixed sum. It would support him, for a while, if he curtailed his extravagant taste; he'd begun to see frugality as a challenge. Christine might have called it, "character-building."

The pawnbroker beamed. "Yes, sir," he said with a broad grin. "And for you, I'll even throw in the rosin."

-0-0-0-

**Author's Note:** With the long Thanksgiving holiday weekend fast approaching, I thought I'd post this week's chapter a little early. Happy reading...and Happy Thanksgiving!!


	13. Chapter 13

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 13**

**By HDKingsbury and MadLizzy**

As always, many many thanks to all our readers! Without you...there would be no story to tell!!

-0-0-0-

_"His life was an open book, and, as Édouard had warned, others claiming to know the Opera Ghost had begun to sell their own sordid versions of the tale."_ ~HDL

-0-0-0-

Trying hard to ignore the significance of her disturbing dream, Christine remained in Perros a few more days, indulging in doing nothing other than taking simple meals alone and visiting her father's grave. She pulled weeds that had sprouted up around the plain headstone, and placed heavy, rose-colored granite stones in an oval around the grave to set it aside from the others. More than anything else, she felt that she was finally putting him to rest, in her own mind.

Even with the work she did, the grave still looked barren, bereft of the comfort of lush plants and colorful flowers. Her efforts to spruce up the gravesite by planting flowers failed dismally. She wished something pretty would grow in the sandy soil, but all that seemed to thrive were the hardy sea oats and spindly evergreens, and similar plants that were able to endure the salt air. She looked around. The remote landscape was forebodingly silent. The graveyard was far enough from the village shield it from sounds of fisherman returning with their catches and the gulls that followed them. Instead, only an occasional birdsong broke the stillness. A gust of wind whistled through the iron gate of the cemetery, gently pushing it open with a faint creak. It was a desolate noise, and it made her miss the sound of her father's cheerful fiddling more than ever.

He had been a lively man before illness robbed him of his vigor, and they had shared many happy years trekking across the countryside on their way to the next town or festive celebration. When his health had begun to fail, they'd left Sweden and come here. In Perros, they had hoped that the gentler climate would prove beneficial. For a short while, this seemed to be the case. He had rallied, but his improvement was short-lived and one night, while in his sleep, he quietly passed away.

As she worked, she imagined she was having a conversation with her father, telling him about the past few years without him, of how much she had missed him, of renewing her friendship with Raoul and becoming engaged to him—and breaking it off. She imagined how he would have reacted to Erik—at least, the Erik she knew prior to the debut of _Don Juan Triumphant_. The two of them had a lot in common, and she suspected that her father would have enjoyed her teacher's company. The fact was, _she_ had enjoyed Erik's company. She missed his mysterious ways and the pleasant times they had shared, before Raoul returned and all had gone horribly wrong.

Lonely walks on the beach did nothing to dispel the gloom that followed her everywhere. Something was missing in her life, and though she would not find it here, she dreaded returning to Paris. The new managers had already sent a contract for her to sign, and were pressuring her for an answer.

Back at the inn, she glanced at the calendar. It was already early June. With a heavy heart, she bade farewell to Perros-Guirec and headed back to city life.

-0-0-0-

On the street below his apartment, a noisy scuffle broke the solitude of Erik's quiet afternoon. He rose from his chair, gave a contemptuous look at the motley crowd and shut the window, blocking out the distraction. Hours of writing had left his recently-injured hand sore and throbbing, and he massaged life back into it. His stomach rumbled and he glanced over at the clock and realized how long it had been since he had last eaten. Was it really only hours, or had he so completely lost track of time that it was, in fact, days? Funny, but he thought that living underground, devoid of sunlight, had made him careless of mealtime, but even in his sunny apartment food didn't seem to matter. He poured his all his energy into his memoirs nonstop, eager to be done with the whole business, until hunger drove him out into the market in search of sustenance.

He had learned to adapt to his newfound and unwanted celebrity by ducking out late in the day, and only when he found it absolutely necessary to leave the sanctuary of his modest dwelling. Since most Parisians shopped early in the day as they sought the best bargains, the shops were less likely to be crowded by late afternoon. Erik, naturally, valued his privacy more than selection, and he found the convenience afforded by empty market stalls to be less nerve-wracking than rubbing elbows with the common folk. This way, he could avoid touching anyone inadvertently, or being jostled. Jostling meant that his mask might slip, and that, God forbid, would lead to an unpleasant scene. It always did.

The stark white mask with its grim visage had been effective in the darkness of the opera house, but out here, in broad daylight, the less attention he drew to himself, the better. A highboy held an assortment of disguises, each designed to allow him to move as freely as possible in the streets, without frightening the horses. People would always be afraid of him. He accepted that for a fact; but a flesh-colored mask was perfect for a quick errand when he couldn't be bothered to put on a full disguise.

His summer morning coat offered less concealment than he was comfortable with, but this late in the season, he could never get away with wearing a cape. It simply wouldn't do. He pulled his wide-brimmed fedora low over the mask that concealed the horror of his face and checked in the mirror. Suit pressed, shoes shined, dashing hat, sword cane: Yes, he was ready. He picked up the market basket by the door, and took the steps as fast as he could but slowed down at the street entrance, checking carefully for any sign of trouble before setting foot outside in broad daylight.

It was a beautiful, sunny afternoon. The air was warm and clean, having been scrubbed by rain only a few hours earlier. Erik was deeply engrossed in thoughts about putting his next imaginary adventure on paper for his memoirs, and became oblivious to the people around him. He strolled along the sidewalk, venturing farther and farther from his own arrondissements. Old habits die hard, but as he had that night at the pawn shop, Erik dropped his guard, lulled by the laziness of the lengthening hours.

"Fresh cheese, sir?" a man wearing an apron asked hopefully. He held up a sample on a wooden pick for Erik to taste. Erik kept sideways to the man, but reached out and took the sample. It was sharp and rich, and the taste of food on the tongue made him keenly aware of how long it had been since his last meal.

Mechanically, he pointed to a pound of the hard cheese, a loaf of crusty bread and a bottle of crisp Maywine before tossing a bunch of grapes into the wicker basket hanging on the crook of his arm. He overpaid the vendor, thrusting a few francs at the man and not waiting for his change before heading down the street. He looked about and realized with a start that he had absent-mindedly wandered into forbidden territory and was uncomfortably close to the opera house. How could he have come so far without even being aware of where he was heading? He was almost certainly in violation of his court sentence.

Erik flattened himself against a wall beneath a low balcony, concealed by afternoon shadows, while he scanned the area to get his bearings. He was vaguely aware of the way that people had begun to scrutinize him, when a young woman walking ahead of him caught his eye. There was something about her, something familiar about the way she walked, the way the light shone on her strawberry-blonde hair….

"Christine!"

Erik turned to see who had called out her name, recognizing with embarrassment that it had been he. He hoped she hadn't heard him and tried to slink back into the shadows when she turned her head, but it was too late. Already, he saw surprise, then recognition on her face.

"Erik?" she said, stopping in her tracks. She hesitated and looked around, checking to see if anyone else heard or saw this sudden apparition.

"Please, Christine…don't…don't scream," he said, torn between the joy of seeing her and the fear that she would give him away. "I'm sorry. I hadn't meant to call out your name. It's just that I didn't expect to see you." Much to his surprise, she came closer.

"I have no intention of screaming," she said in a quiet, even voice, wondering to herself how it was that she could sound so calm when her heart was racing. It wasn't fear or panic she felt. No, nothing like that. It was something else, something she couldn't quite name. "I must confess, however, that you are the last person I expected to meet on the street."

"My apologies. I will be gone, Mademoiselle, and I promise that I shall never trouble you again." He turned to leave.

"No, wait!" she called after him, worried that he would once again disappear from her life, this time never to return.

He turned around, astonished by the expression on her face. Was it possible that she was actually looking sorry? But for what? That he would remove his hideous presence? "Yes?" he offered, tentatively.

"Are you…well?" she asked, hesitation in her voice. "We haven't seen each other in many weeks. Since the trial."

"I am fine. And you?" Inwardly, he cringed at the thought that he might sound so…banal.

"Yes, I am well." She indicated the basket. "Are you going on a picnic? It's a lovely day for one."

He shook his head, puzzled. A picnic? Alone? How absurd. After a few silent, awkward moments, Erik replied, "I suppose you are busy these days, planning your wedding."

Christine blinked. "Wedding?" Then she remembered that Erik had likely not heard. "Oh, you mean my betrothal to Raoul. Well, there isn't going to be a wedding. We have..that is, I have broken off our engagement."

"What?" _Great,_ Erik thought. _I've ruined everything. She'll never forgive me._ "I'm…I'm sorry, Christine."

"Don't be," she said. "I'm not."

Erik shook his head sadly. "This is my fault, isn't it." It was a statement, not a question.

A ghost of a smile formed at the corners of her mouth. "You can't take credit for everything," she said, and Erik could have sworn she was teasing him. Just a little. "Give me credit for making this decision on my own." And this time when he looked at her, her eyes were sparkling with a hint of mischief.

Much to his surprise, he laughed. The sound was foreign to his ears. "I underestimated you once. I shan't make that mistake again."

"You mean, pretending to be an angel? Taking advantage of my naïveté?"

"Do you blame me? I needed all the help I could get, meeting a woman such as you." He tried to make light of it, but the pain was there. He felt it pierce his heart: Cupid's arrow, hard at work.

"Nonsense," she chuckled. "I've been reading the papers. You are quite the worldly man, judging by your memoirs."

"Oh," he said, wishing the earth would open up and swallow him. "You…you mean to say you've read them?"

"And enjoying every word." She glanced side to side conspiratorially, and whispered, "Especially those tales of the harem girls."

His face burned. He was sure it was bright red with embarrassment. "Surely, you don't believe everything you read in the newspapers." He tried to toss it off with a cavalier laugh, but instead, his voice cracked and gurgled like an adolescent boy's.

Whereas he was a mess, Christine was unflappable. "Perhaps we can meet again," she said, undaunted. "Like old friends. I am certain there's more to your story than what is in the papers. I'd love to hear it."

A terrible sadness overcame him and clouded his mismatched eyes. "I think not, Christine. The court has ordered me to stay away from anyone associated with the opera house, and most especially you." He shifted uncomfortably on his feet, gazed heavenwards and plunged forth recklessly. "You must forgive me for stating the obvious, but my…feelings have not changed. It would be best for both of us if this were the last time we saw each other."

Christine paused, thinking. "If you say so," she said. There was another pause; then she added, "I often come to the park in the evening, when the weather is warm. Usually before supper." There was a brief smile, and then she left.

Erik watched her walk away. Now, why did she tell him that? Was it a warning… or an invitation?

0-0-0

Thereafter, at the same time each day, Erik made it a point to situate himself in such a location that he could observe the street where Christine walked on her way to the park, in case she happened to come by. True to her word, she often came in the evening, and he would be there, waiting. His heart soared as he watched her scan the landscape as if searching the area. Dare he hope that she was looking for him? He did. He could not help it.

Yet, he did not approach her right away. Nearly a week passed before he drew up the courage to stage a chance meeting, tipping his hat and nodding in her general direction. It was several days more before he stopped to greet her and politely accept her gloved hand. He gracefully lifted it to his malformed lips, regardless of the people who starred at this curious sight: A beautiful young lady, and a ghastly man pretending for the entire world to be like a real gentleman. What was even more astonishing was the fact that she seemed to delight in it.

Erik was ecstatic…until he heard the newsboy cry, "Read all about it! Phantom to wed!"

He felt intensely cold, as though all the blood had drained out of him. "I have no idea what he's talking about," he managed to say to the beautiful young lady who was suddenly staring daggers at him.

"Opera Ghost's own words!" the newsboy continued, oblivious to Erik's agony. "Love at last!"

"Really, Christine," he said, trying to keep the quaver out of his voice. "People say the most _fantastic_ things."

Without a word, she opened her purse and reached for a coin. "I'll take one," she said.

Erik unsuccessfully attempted to stay her hand. "I didn't write that!" he protested.

"Boy, which paper is it?" she asked, ignoring Erik.

The dirty little boy wiped his nose on his sleeve before answering. "_Agence france presse_, Mademoiselle." He crept closer, hoping to close the sale.

"That rag!" Erik exclaimed. He cocked an eyebrow skeptically. "They'll print anything." He snatched the paper out of the boy's hands without paying for it and quickly read the article. "Aha!" he said triumphantly, jabbing a finger at the offending article. "Look here!" He thumped the paper excitedly. "It's written by 'Anonymous.' That should tell you something!"

Christine pressed a coin into the boy's hand and sent him on his way. She stood on the tips of her toes and read over Erik's shoulder. "Hmm…I see you are to wed Elisabet de Chagny. I believe she is one of Raoul's maiden aunts. Just think! We might have ended up as in-laws. You could have been my uncle!"

He blanched, his already pale skin turning a sickly pallor at the mere suggestion. "It isn't true!"

"She's a...mature woman," Christine said seriously. "I'm sure she'll make the Phantom very happy."

"A 'mature' woman?" Erik growled. "I've seen that battleaxe! She's older than I am!"

Christine pursed her lips and frowned. This was not the cute frown that Erik had come to love when he watched her struggle with her singing lessons; it was one of real consternation. "You've seen her?"

"By chance, Christine, by chance! She used to come to the opera!"

"I see." She turned her back on him, knowing he was squirming miserably, and started to walk away. "Well, Monsieur Delacorte, you must realize that since you are affianced, we may no longer have our walks in the park."

"Chris-_teen_!" he cried. "I'm innocent, I swear!"

She walked on, inured to his pleas, as he remained glued to the spot, the damnable paper clenched in his white-knuckled fist.

"Please!" He ran after her.

She paused to let him catch up, and only then did she burst out laughing.

The truth slowly dawned on him. "Why you little minx! You're joking with me, aren't you?"

"Oh, Erik!" she said good-naturedly. "It's harmless! You mustn't take everything so seriously."

He let out the breath he had been holding for God knows how long. He was relieved, but at the same time, miffed. "I don't know why you'd care if I am engaged. It isn't such a far-fetched idea. Any number of women would agree to...put up with me. Why, you should see the letters Bruguière accumulates on my behalf."

She stopped laughing. He had her full attention. "Letters?"

"Ludicrous as it seems, I have...admirers. Oh, don't look at me that way! I don't even bother to read them. I've instructed Bruguière to burn them."

"Burn them? But Erik, some of those letters were mine!"

"Yours?" He was completely confused by this revelation. "You...you mean...you wrote to me?"

"I wanted to...see you. To talk to you! To tell you that I've quit the opera, that you needn't worry about being seen with me in public." It was her turn to feel her cheeks burn—but hers were burning with frustration. "If you weren't such a foolish, opinionated, temperamental old fuddy-duddy, we could have been seeing each other weeks ago!" She hurried away from him as fast as her feet could carry her.

Erik stared after her in abject astonishment for several moments; then, he picked up his jaw and ran after her. With his long stride, it only took seconds to reach her. He went for broke. "Did you mean what you said, Christine? Did you mean what you said about seeing each other?"

Gone was the sultry pout, and the happiness in her eyes lit up his world. "It's a beautiful day, Erik. Would you care to escort me on a walk?"

He stood up straight and proud. "It's warm out," he said, a sly smile creeping across his face. "I'd prefer a carriage ride, if you don't mind. Through the Bois." He lifted a hand and signaled for a cab.

Christine took his arm and held it possessively. "That would be lovely," she said. "I can't think of anything I'd rather do, Erik, than spend time with you."

An elegant hansom drawn by a fine chestnut horse stopped for them, the driver nodding as Erik helped Christine into the back. When she was situated, he climbed in beside her, hardly believing his luck. There he was, riding through the Bois, with the woman he loved sitting next to him—willingly. Yes, free will was ever so much better than manipulation and brute force.

He settled into the seat, relaxing next to Christine, and nodded to the people on foot whom they passed. Here he was, he realized, in broad daylight. Like any other man.

-0-0-0-


	14. Chapter 14

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 14**

By HDKingsbury and MadLizzy  
December 9, 2009

He was so excited at the prospect of a carriage ride through the park with dear Christine that it took a while for her comment about quitting the opera to sink into his thick skull. When it did, however, Erik hesitated to bring the matter up, not wanting to spoil the moment. Christine, on the other hand, appeared delighted with her circumstances. As they rode through the Bois, she maintained a carefree conversation about the weather, the landscape, the buildings they passed – in short, the sort of topics that a lady would discuss in public with a gentleman. She actually appeared to be enjoying herself, the fact of which flummoxed him. Who would have ever imagined that she would look forward to sharing a carriage with the likes of him?

Their carriage took them to the _l'Acclimatation Anthropoliguqie_, which allowed curious Parisians the opportunity to see firsthand the customs and lifestyles of foreign peoples. Nubians, Bushmen, and Zulus of Darkest Africa, _"Peaux Rouges"_ – the red skinned Indians of North America – and the _Esquimaux_ of the frigid Arctic regions were housed in exhibits that were considered quite enlightening. To Erik, however, this was little more than a human zoo that stank of exploitation and all that he considered vile. While the exhibitions were extremely popular with Parisians, they brought a sour taste to Erik's mouth. Christine, on the other hand, did not understand what it felt like to be gawked at and was excited to see such exotic peoples.

She turned to Erik, expecting to find him sharing in her enthusiasm. Instead, he appeared ill at ease. She thought it might be due to their being in public, but then she saw he was staring at a family of African "natives" with a pained expression on the unmasked part of his face. She tried to gain his attention with what she hoped were harmless questions, but received no response. Worried, she tugged at his sleeve. Finally, he looked at her.

"You haven't heard a word I've said. Perhaps you'd rather not be here?"

He forced a smile and tried to present an outward expression of nonchalance, but from the look of doubt on her face, it was obvious that his efforts were unsuccessful. "What makes you say that?"

"I spoke to you several times, yet you never answered. It was as if your mind was a million miles away. Does all this," she said, gesturing towards the displays, "make you uncomfortable?"

Of course, she would not understand, he told himself. She had no way of knowing what he had endured in the past; no way of knowing that like these poor people, he too had once been on exhibit. He cocked a quizzical eyebrow and shrugged off her question as if it were of little importance. "It's…it's nothing. Perhaps we should continue on foot, towards the lake." He pointed with his walking stick.

They found an unoccupied bench and quickly claimed it. Christine pulled out a crust of bread she had stuffed into her pocket so that she would have something to feed the swans. Their conversation steered away from human zoos and turned instead to innocent topics, and though he successfully shook off any distress he'd felt back at the exhibition grounds, the shocking news she had sprung on him earlier niggled the back of his mind and wormed its way to his forethoughts every chance it got. There was no use ignoring it, since it would not be kept at bay. "Christine," he finally blurted. "What did you mean about quitting the opera? Is it true?"

She lowered her eyes and grew very still. The silence between them was painful. When he thought he could not bear it any longer, he reached for her hand. "Christine," he said softly, his velvet voice caressing her. A slight tremble of her lower lip nearly left him undone. "You must tell me what happened."

"You must be terribly disappointed in me," she said quietly. The clip-clop of horse's shoes on the pavement behind them all but drowned out her whisper. "After all, you worked so hard to make me a diva, and yet here I am…."

"It was never about what I wanted," he replied, feeling terribly ashamed of himself for the way he had manipulated her in the past. "I only ever wanted you to be happy, to have everything your heart desired." _Only, I hoped you would want me, too._ "At least, I thought I was helping you to fulfill your potential. Perhaps I was deluding myself."

"What do you mean? Don't you think I have talent?"

"It isn't that." A rude scoff escaped him. "I didn't mean to denigrate your abilities," he added sheepishly. "It's that…well, I thought it was the only way I could get you to spent time with me. I wanted so badly to be near you, and it was quite obvious that I believed the only way to do that was by offering you the kind of training that a talent such as yours deserved." He added sarcastically, "God knows, you weren't getting it at the oh-per-a." He sneered derisively at the mere mention of the place. "If you have abandoned the opera, how will you live?" Erik was worried. What would she do, without income? Perhaps he could discreetly help her, but how?

"Tomorrow, I have an interview with the Duchess of Zurich. I have applied for the position of music tutor to her two young girls."

Erik barked out a laugh. "The Duchess of Zurich? That harridan?"

"She is not a harridan. Quite the opposite; she is very nice." The tone in her voice challenged Erik to disagree with her.

He backed off a bit. "How do you know this?" he asked, not quite so sarcastically this time.

"Have you forgotten that I sang for her last year? She was very generous, and very gracious, too. If I am able to secure this position, I will still be doing what I love away from the notoriety of the stage."

"My apologies, Christine. I'd forgotten how difficult all of this has made life for you."

"Please, don't. There's no need for apologies. I thought we already understood that."

Erik allowed himself a self-deprecating smile. "No doubt, Carlotta will be pleased to have you out of the way."

"She's not really that bad."

"You're right. She's worse. Don't forget – I saw her in action, too."

"You weren't exactly kind to her," Christine teased.

"She did not earn my kindness."

Christine ignored his jibe, and they sat in uncomfortable silence, neither daring to say a word, and watched the swans glide gracefully across the pond.

-0-0-0-

When Christine had made the decision not to accept the contract being offered by the new management of the Opera Populaire, she knew she would still need work. She had a good musical background, thanks to her studies at the Conservatory and her friendship with Raoul had helped acquaint her with several members of the aristocratic society. She had considered placing an advertisement in the local papers, offering her services as a private music tutor, but thought about the very real likelihood that the people she had wanted to reach never read the personal columns.

There had also been the troubling possibility that placing an advertisement for the world to see would not only reflect poorly upon herself, but on Raoul, too. After all, Raoul had not been bad to her in any way and had even supported her when she defended Erik in court. Maybe he had not understood her as she had wished, but that did not mean she wanted to cause him any unnecessary harm. She had also considered the fact that while she was a member of Paris society, if only peripherally, going about posting advertisements in the newspaper might lead her to her being perceived as a fallen woman. Certainly, there were enough people who would be only too willing to consider her tarnished, if not soiled. And there were others who were petty enough to assume she was trading on the de Chagny name. In the end, she had decided on sending out handwritten notes to a carefully chosen few – people who had seemed "real" and who genuinely liked her. Of the few responses she received, the one that appealed to her the most was that of the Duchess of Zurich.

Christine remembered the night she sang for the duchess. It had been shortly after her triumphant debut as Marguerite in Gounod's _Faust_. A few weeks later, the Duchess of Zurich – whose title was strictly honorary, as there was no Duchy of Zurich, but who was considered the arbiter of musical fashion among the Parisian elite – held a glittering soiree to which Christine had been invited to sing. That evening, she dazzled those who attended when she sang _"A vos jeux, mes amis,"_ Ophelia's mad scene from Ambroise Thomas's _Hamlet_, along with The Queen of the Night's aria from Mozart's _The Magic Flute_. It had been a splendid success, and the duchess had hinted that if at any time Christine needed assistance, that she should feel free to call on her.

-0-0-0-

The day of the interview was at hand. Dressed smartly and arriving at the appointed time – it would never have done to be late! – Christine found herself sitting with the duchess at the other woman's grand townhouse, unexpectedly sharing tea in a most congenial setting. The duchess explained that her two daughters were spending the afternoon at the park with their nurse, which would allow the two women a chance to get to know each other. The duchess was refreshingly democratic, as much at ease with Christine as she was with heads of state, which endeared her to Christine.

"I still cannot believe my good fortune in securing La Daaé to teach music to my darling children. When I read your letter, I was stunned!" The duchess threw up her hands expressively. She was older than Christine, nearing forty years, with soft brown hair and expressive eyes. Her two daughters favored their mother; at least that is what the duchess told Christine. The older one was twelve years old, and the younger, ten.

"I had so looked forward to seeing and hearing you on the stage of the Opera Populaire this coming season," the duchess went on. "What happened? Did the new management fail to offer you a suitable contract? What about the Garnier? Surely, they would have been eager to snatch you away from the Populaire. Oh, I see. It's all that fuss about the Opera Ghost. Rather interesting memoirs, don't you agree?"

The duchess continued her non-stop monologue in a bright, cheery tone. Christine was barely able to get a word in edgewise and felt out of breath just listening to her. At last, the older woman paused, allowing Christine an opportunity to reply.

"Actually, Ma'am, the contract I was offered was more than adequate. It was only that…" But she was unable to finish what she had intended to say, as the duchess launched into another monologue.

"Ah!" interjected the duchess. "La Carlotta! Of course, I should have guessed. What you need, my dear is a patron."

Christine made a tiny gasp.

"Or…a patroness," she continued, oblivious to Christine's discomfort. "I have always loved the arts…"

"No, Ma'am," Christine said, finding the nerve to correct the other woman. The duchess may have loved to monopolize a conversation, but Christine did not want to give the wrong impression. She was also finding that in spite of being an aristocrat and unafraid of expressing rather blunt comments, the woman came across as genuinely interested in Christine's situation. "It wasn't Carlotta, either, although it is true that her personality can sometimes be a bit…forceful."

The duchess gave a very unladylike snort. It was a small gesture, but one that warmed the duchess to Christine even more, and she had to bite the insides of her cheeks to keep from laughing. It was one thing for the lady of the house to cast disparaging remarks about the competition; it was quite another, Christine felt, to voice them herself publicly.

"I simply wanted to get away from the stage…and all the notoriety."

"Interesting," said the duchess. "More tea?" She poured them both another cup. "I should have thought that a young woman such as you would have wanted the fame and adoration of the public."

"There was a time when I did, too, but I discovered that fame is not all that one had been led to believe it is. That the public is fickle, and is often willing to believe the worst in a person without knowing the truth."

"Hmm, wise words from one so young. Is that what caused you and young de Chagny to break it off? Oh, you needn't deny it. Everybody knows there was an understanding between the two of you."

Christine blushed, and felt the heat in her cheeks go down her neck.

The duchess gave an ingratiating smile. "Forgive me, my dear. I am far too direct for my own good."

Christine returned the duchess's smile and felt more at ease. All the rumors concerning the duchess's reputation for not holding with societal dictates had turned out to be true, and to Christine, she came across as a breath of fresh air. She was finding it a pleasure to be able to speak more openly about what had happened recently and not worry about couching her comments in the kind of coded, proper phrases expected from a young lady.

"Raoul and I were friends, never anything more," she explained. "We've known each other since we were too young to read. He's more like a brother than anything else."

They continued talking for well into the afternoon. By the time she left, Christine knew she had secured the position and would start next week. She could not wait to tell Erik.

-0-0-0-

The next day, Erik prepared to meet Christine in the park, as had become their habit. This time, he brought along a surprise for her—the nykelharpa. He had cleaned it and put new, high quality strings on it, which improved the sound immensely. The bow had been restrung, too, and Erik had gradually become proficient at playing it. Now it was time to share it with Christine.

She had often spoken fondly of her father's interest in folk music. Erik sat on one of the park benches – "their" bench, as they had come to call it – and closed his eyes as he waited for her to arrive, recalling the sound of her voice as she sang her favorite tunes while waiting for him to escort her to his home for her lessons. His memories took him back to a time a year earlier, a time before the boy had come back into Christine's life and spoiled everything. He recalled standing behind the mirror, cloaked in darkness, and watching as she sat at her dressing table, dabbing at her nose with a ridiculously large powder puff.

He had been mesmerized as she carefully coiffed her hair in a loose chignon, and with a shock had realized that she was no longer a gangly teenager with girlish locks of loose hair flowing about her shoulders. Overnight, she had become a young woman, wearing her hair up like a lady. It was the age-old signal that proclaimed the transition of females from childhood to marriageability. His protégé had…grown up. Gone was the little girl who missed her father and cried herself to sleep at night. Christine had become a woman. And a rather nice-looking one at that.

Suddenly, he had felt ashamed of himself, and had turned his back to the dressing room, allowing Christine her privacy. At that moment, she had called out to her Angel of Music, and he had answered. He could never refuse her anything, and he had not been able to deprive himself of the pleasure of her company—even if it meant deceiving her.

"Look at your face in the mirror," he had replied. "I am there, inside."

It was a lifetime ago, and yet, here he was, preparing to meet her in broad daylight—openly and honestly, with no subterfuge to give him an advantage. He smiled to himself, aware of the irony of his situation. A year ago, he was a pretender, hiding in the shadows; today, he was an ordinary man, courting the women he loved.

_Courting__. __Is that what I'm doing? I wonder if Christine realizes it. He shook his head. No, she's only being kind to me, because she feels sorry for me. She thinks I am lonely... Perish the thought that she would deign to consider me a suitor! I am lucky she gives me the time of day._

Dainty footsteps told him that she had arrived, and when she saw him waiting for her it was no use trying to hide the nykelharpa behind his back. "Patience, Christine," he chuckled, as she tried to peek into the instrument case. She was dying of curiosity as they sat in their favorite spot in the park underneath the locust trees, near a large fishpond. It was off the winding footpath that meandered through their preferred part of the park, yet out in the open, where no one would think the worse of Christine if they saw her there with an odd-looking man. It was perfectly acceptable, especially in the fashionable Bois de Boulogne.

She squealed with delight when he produced the nykelharpa, and stripped off her gloves so she could touch it. She turned it over eagerly in her bare hands. She ran her fingertips over the exquisite carving, and her eyebrows knit in the most attractive way as she scrutinized the details. Erik's heart skipped a beat when she ran her fingers up and down the long neck and plucked the fine strings, listening carefully to the rich, warm tones the instrument produced.

She was quiet for a moment, lost in thought, and then she said, "My father had one similar to this. If I didn't know better, I'd think it is the same instrument." Her eyes glistened with tears, and she whispered, "He had to sell it, you know, when he was too ill to work. I remember how…." She bit her lip, refusing to talk about it any longer.

He couldn't stand seeing her so sad, and cursed himself for the wretched idea of bringing the nykelharpa to play for her. "The dealer said that it had once belonged to a great musician," he offered consolingly. "Do you think it might be possible that this was your father's?"

She put her bare hand on Erik's, and shook her head. "I can't imagine how it could be, but…do you suppose …do you think I could pretend that it is?" She seemed so hopeful that he could not bear to disappoint her.

"Of course," he whispered, and without a sound, she leaned her head against his shoulder. For a long time, they sat on the bench watching the evening breeze make ripples on the surface of the fish pond, and neither of them said a word. When the sun began to set and cast long shadows of the trees across the water, Erik picked up the bow and began to play. It was the music of Christine's childhood, but Erik embellished it with harmonies, vibratos and flourishes of his own making. He added uplifting crescendos and melancholy adagios, letting the music transcend its origins as it was transformed into Erik's own creation.

Christine sang along with the music, tapping her toes lightly on the grass to count out the beat. When he paused for a rest, she asked, "How do you know these songs?"

He waited until the resonance of the strings had stopped completely before answering; he needed time to confess the truth. "I listened," he said shyly. "When you would sing to yourself in your dressing room, and I was waiting in the corridor behind the mirror, I listened." He was certain she would be angry, and never speak to him again. To his surprise and relief, she laughed.

"It's a good thing I always dressed behind the screen," she said playfully.

He could have sworn she was flirting with him. "You aren't angry with me?" he asked.

"Once upon a time, but not anymore." She peeked up at him quickly. "In a way, it's flattering, that you would remember – and that you would buy the nykelharpa to play for me." She grew serious. "You were always a gentleman, Erik. I know that you would never do anything that would hurt me."

He shamefully recalled kidnapping her, and sheepishly asked, "Have you forgotten all that I did…back then, in the opera?"

"All of that is in the past, Erik. Let it be." She waved her hand dismissively. "Do you remember the song about the cockerel, the valiant chanticleer who tells the old woman he will marry a princess one day?"

Erik nodded, and grinned mischievously. "'That's the worst cock I ever did see!'" he said theatrically, quoting the fairy tale, and they both laughed until their sides ached at the silliness of it. "I always liked that one the best," he said, once he had caught his breath. "Seriously, Christine. Do you think I would ever forget anything you told me?" he asked with a soulful sigh.

She leaned against him, content as a kitten, as he picked up the nykelharpa and let its cheerful melody fill the air.

-0-0-0-

**Authors' Note:** As those of you who are familiar with Leroux might already know, the Duchess of Zurich is a minor character from the book, and "The Valiant Chanticleer" is an actual Swedish fairy tale.


	15. Chapter 15

Note: Sorry I'm a little late in getting this posted. Yesterday was my mother's 80th Birthday, and we were busy celebrating! ~HD

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 15**

**By HDKingsbury & MadLizzy  
December 17, 2009**

_"A few observations and much reasoning lead to error; many observations and a little reasoning to truth."_  
**~Alexis Carrel**

-0-0-0-

"Mam'selle Christine, will you sing us another song?"

"Not now, Marceline. It's time for your lesson."

After several weeks on the job, Christine was adapting well to her role of music tutor to the daughters of a prominent family. News that she was available to teach had spread quickly in the right circles, thanks to some well-placed comments from the duchesse, and offers for her services were pouring in. Her employer's generous salary provided an enviable security, leaving Christine in a position that enabled her to choose her clients, rather than have them choose her.

Fortunately for all involved, she was getting along well with the two girls, and found that she looked forward to their time together. They made her laugh with their carefree antics, and they were good students. When she was teaching, Christine forgot about everything else. There were no jealousies among fellow employees to distract her, no backstage rivalries to worry her, no gossip in the papers. The difficulties at the opera were fading away. She enjoyed her work; found that being a private tutor was peaceful. It gave her a sense of purpose.

It also helped that, like their mother, Annabella and Marceline were unpretentious and genuinely kind. It was often hard for Christine to act the part of taskmistress, but her job was to teach the girls, not to entertain them.

"Oh, no fair! I could listen to you all day, Mademoiselle!" Marceline daintily lifted the hem of her skirt and made a clumsy pirouette in the middle of the music room.

Annabella, the younger of the two, giggled at her sister's antics. "Papa says you sing like an angel," she confessed. "Will I be able to sing as good as you when I grow up?"

"Stop it, Annabella. You're embarrassing Maestro Christine." Marceline, at twelve years old, was every inch the big sister. She was fond of bossing around eight-year-old Annabella, especially when the rivalry between the two siblings reared its ugly head. Right now, the two girls were competing for Christine's attention, each determined to prove to her that the other was inferior.

On the cusp of adolescence, Marceline would blossom into a beautiful young woman one day. Her light brown hair curled naturally in a way that would make Raphael weep, and it matched her brown eyes perfectly. She asked questions about Christine's clothing, her hairdo, and her beauty routine, evidence that she was showing an interest in womanly concerns.

As for music, Marceline played the piano moderately well, but if Christine was any judge of talent, she could go much farther. The problem was, her previous teacher had insisted on a strict classical regimen, and had never allowed the young girl to explore other types of music. Marceline had been confined too long, and was eager to spread her wings. Starting today, Christine planned to incorporate some of the exercises Erik had taught _her_ into their lessons. It would be a new beginning for the girl's musical education.

Annabella might have been mistaken for a smaller version of her sister, but her hair was a lighter shade, almost a tawny brunette, and she had pale brown eyes that glittered mischievously. She was young enough to prefer dollies to dresses, but was never one to turn down _un cadeau_. Christine kept that observation in reserve, in case she ever needed to resort to bribery to get the child to complete her assignments. After all, her own Maestro had been known to reward her efforts with a special gift: a fragrant red rose.

Christine fretted that Annabella might have trouble with the piano because of her exceptionally small hands and short fingers. She knew that by practicing finger stretches, Annabella would gradually gain flexibility and reach. Perhaps Erik would have some suggestions, would know something that would help Annabella. She would ask him this evening, when she met him for their usual walk, because the child's heart was set on playing for her Papa when he returned home next month.

One month did not allow much time to prepare, but Christine could not help wondering if Erik might consent to compose an original piece for the girls to play. He wouldn't admit it, but she could tell by the questions he asked that he missed teaching music. It was, she knew, his first love. She knew he would be waiting for her near the gate when she left the house, and her heart beat a little faster as she thought of him.

-0-0-0-

"Confound it! I don't know why I let her talk me into this."

Erik sat at his desk, mumbling to himself, with pages of staff paper scattered about. Blank pages sat stacked off to the side staring at him, while others were crumpled up and on the floor, the unsatisfactory results of previous efforts at his current project – composing some uncomplicated exercises for children. When Christine first made this request, he'd balked. What did he know of children? That did not matter, Christine said; what she was looking for were some small pieces that Annabella and Marceline could use for their piano lessons. They were planning a small concert for their papa, the Duc de Zurich, a member of the French diplomatic corps who would soon return home after a long absence. The girls were looking forward to surprising their beloved papa by showing off their progress and performing some new pieces for him.

Against his better judgment, Erik acquiesced. He had no idea about the kind of music these girls would like. If he based the pieces on his own childhood, the melodies would be brooding and melancholy. Certainly not the sort of fare Mlle Annabella and Mlle Marceline deserved. He tried composing a few pieces based upon simple chords and pentatonic scales but those left him feeling empty. If he'd met the girls, had some idea of what interested them…. No, there was no chance of meeting them, and besides, their father was expected home in a month. If he waited to make their acquaintance, the music would not be written in time.

Heaving a sigh, he rose from his chair and paced the room. He realized that it had become stuffy. Going over to the double window that looked out over the courtyard in the rear, he drew the drapes and threw open the window, allowing the warm late-summer breeze to refresh the room. He stood at the window, shutting his eyes and listening to the sounds coming from outside. The trees that surrounded the premises blocked most of the street noise, and instead of the clip-clop of horse traffic and the shouts of drivers, he heard the sweet rustle of leaves in the breeze, and the serenade of a songbird perched nearby. Next door, a woman was in her back yard hanging clothes, singing as she worked, her notes floating on the wind. It called to mind a story Christine had once told him, a fairy tale her father told her about a mother troll who took in the king's washing. Suddenly, Erik knew what he wanted to write.

He rushed back to his desk and started filling the staff sheet with notes that, when played, would incorporate the sounds of a summer's day into melodies based upon the old folk tales that Christine loved. They were dark tales, to be sure, but Erik knew she would tell them to the girls in such a way that they were pleasant enough—well, as pleasant as stories of trolls and ogres can be. Cautionary tales, perhaps. He knew she would sort it out.

Every so often, he would stop, close his eyes again, and listen to the birds so that he could get the notes right. Too bad he didn't have a piano to work with, but that was a luxury he could not afford. He pulled down the nykelharpa and tried out the little suite of songs on it, adjusting, correcting, and adding to them as he went along. The music filled his soul, and he lost track of the time until the bells of one of the nearby churches wafted upon the evening air, signaling the end of the day.

Music allowed him a freedom that he had not enjoyed while writing his memoirs, and he plunged into it with abandon. The lawyers had imposed restraints on his "creativity" that chaffed him. He had been required to avoid any mention of de Chagny, for example, who wielded a surprising amount of power for a young pup, and who wanted none of the notoriety that Erik's memoirs brought. Erik also tried to protect Christine's reputation, and brutally fell on his own sword rather than implicate her in any of his subterfuges. He had been a pathetic old man who was smitten with a beautiful young woman; that much was true. She had felt sorry for him; again, nothing but the truth. She was kind to him. The memory of her standing in a tattered wedding gown, soaking wet and numb with cold, struggling to free her lover caused him deep remorse, but it seemed like years ago.

Only yesterday, she had smiled at him radiantly, told him how much she enjoyed his company, and let her hand linger in his as he bade her good evening. As incredible as it was, she seemed to like him, and even encouraged him to visit her more often. With that in mind, Erik had cast aside his doubts and allowed himself to indulge his need for her. He went anywhere she might go, in hopes of seeing her. He was never far from Christine, even following her to workplace and keeping watch until she had safely returned to her home. He lingered outside her boarding house until the old biddy, Mme Moreau, began grumbling about his constant presence.

Christine seemed to sense his presence—basked in it, even. He decided it was because there were so many ruffians about these days. Even a fallen angel afforded some protection from the dangers lurking nearby. Knowing that she felt safe with him made him proud. It made him feel like a man. He had been a craven creature all his life; he'd never really known what it was like to matter to anyone else, and certainly not to a woman. But three months had passed, and still, she encouraged him to spend time with her. She was only out of his sight when he was working on his memoirs for several hours each day, or when it would have been indecent for him to watch her. He laughed at himself, at his folly. He'd exchanged the opera house for haunting an ordinary arrondissement, and a particular green-eyed beauty who lived there.

Christine held the interest of many young men, and quite a few older ones, too. She seemed oblivious to the fact that any number of men were vying for her attention, tipping their hats to her one the street, offering to help her carry her packages when out shopping. Oh, she was pleasant enough to them, but she rejected each in turn. As for the vicomte, there had been neither hide nor hair of him. It seemed that not only had they broken off their engagement, but their friendship, as well. So much the better, as far as Erik was concerned. He never wanted to lay eyes on the boy again.

The question was, Erik wondered, did she think of him only as a friend, a protector, a teacher – or could Christine accept him as…as what? A suitor? He was hardly worthy of it. Still, the way she looked at him when he said goodnight, the way she leaned against him in the carriage spoke of something more than close friendship. He made up his mind. Today, he would ask Christine if she would consider allowing him to court her. His heart raced at the thought of it, and he knew that what he was experiencing was fear.

He hadn't been afraid of anything since he was very young, not since he had been cruelly beaten and lost consciousness for the better part of a day. Once he had learned that he was very hard to kill, he began to experiment with his dubious gifts. He knew he could control men with his siren's song. It took very little effort to make people do his bidding, but he was giddy at the thought of Christine being with him of her own volition.

He had to do this right; he didn't dare scare her away. It was unacceptable to lose Christine again, especially now that she seemed to want him near her. Still, he knew that he would meet her when it was time for her to go to her pupils' house today, and that he would wait for her to emerge, wait hours if need be, so that he could spend time with her. It was the high point of his day.

-0-0-0-

The houses lining the elegant rue Meslay, located in the oldest quarter of Paris, were among the most beautiful in all of France, as were the people who lived in them. Along the sidewalk, couples strolled in amiable elegance, while Erik hid in the shadows.

He cast a cold eye on all that he saw, regarding the sophisticated façades with disdain. He knew what the people inside were really like. They were shallow fools, every last one of them, as handsome and as vacuous as could be. The thought left a sour taste in his mouth. He sneered, and wiped his malformed lips with his handkerchief, grimacing when he noticed the edges of the linen were fraying. His summer sack coat was new; he'd had it made after the trial, almost immediately upon being released from jail. If he were to act the part of a normal man, he wanted to look like one, insofar as possible. He could never change his gruesome visage, but he could make the most of his physique. He smiled to himself, recalling that Christine had recently told him she liked what the sailors called the cut of his jib. He'd always taken pains to look his best, such as it was. Perhaps, he thought, it was time to visit the haberdasher. He was also keenly aware that, at this very moment, he was being watched.

-0-0-0-

Inside the grand mansion, the duchesse rang for the butler. "Bertrand, invite that gentleman in for tea." She motioned towards the window at the man who was waiting in the shadows by the gate.

The butler, Horace Bertrand, had been in her grace's service since she was a mere child. He had been middle aged when she married the duc, and he was rapidly approaching retirement. The butler ambled into the room on doddering legs. He was old, too old for running errands; besides which, he didn't like the way the man outside was always skulking around, waiting for the music tutor.

Bertrand raised a disdainful eyebrow. "Madame? Do you realize who that is? Why, he was once known as _le Fantôme de l'opéra_! The center of that scandalous trial and the author of those purported memoirs being published in the newspapers." Bertrand made the word newspapers sound almost obscene.

The Duchesse de Zurich dismissed his concerns with a wave of her hand. "He looks real enough to me, and besides, I'm tired of him loitering near the gate, waiting for La Daaé like some lost puppy. It's time we made his acquaintance."

"Are you sure, Madame? I mean…do you think it is safe to invite him in here?"

The duchesse chuckled. Stuffy old Bertrand! He was too pompous for his own good. _Besides,_ she thought, comparing the old man to the Biblical Methuselah, wondering just how old the butler really was, _I'm almost twice your size._

"You mustn't concern yourself," she said reassuringly. "I will have you close at hand, won't you? I have no doubt you'll protect me." _And if anyone ends up doing any protecting, I'm sure it will be me protecting you,_ she snickered to herself.

Bertrand frowned, but sent the footman to invite the scoundrel in for tea, as his mistress had instructed. To his chagrin, the masked man accepted. Bertrand made a mental note to count the silver once the brigand was gone.

-0-0-0-

Erik strode into the foyer as if he owned the place, handing his wide-brimmed Panama hat to the butler along with the picnic blanket he was carrying over his arm and the walking stick he had recently acquired. One never knew when it might come in handy.

Discreetly, he assessed his surroundings, making note of every possible means of egress and taking stock of what the house told him about Christine's employer. Hardwood and marble was stolid, firm and spoke of a pedigree, of heritage. But when he saw the oils of the children hanging over the mantle in the day room—paintings of Christine's charges— he knew at once that this was a home, one where family was valued more than possessions. Otherwise, they'd have put their most valuable paintings on display, as a proclamation of their wealth.

Entering the day room, he bowed to the duchesse as gracefully as any dancing master, with a gentle inclination of the torso and minimal dipping of the head.

She smiled at him most graciously as she sat perched on the edge of her chair. Refinement and poise often combine to form airs, but she came across as warm and friendly. "Won't you please sit down, Monsieur Delacorte, and join me for a cup of tea? Or would you prefer something stronger?"

"Thank you, Madame. Tea would be fine." It didn't surprise him that she knew his name. Everyone knew of his association with Christine. It was a fact of life. He sat across from her in an overstuffed armchair, turning his head slightly so that the mask would be less obvious. "It is very kind of you to invite me."

The duchesse was surprised by the slight huskiness to his voice, and wondered if the man were recovering from a recent cold. Then she remembered reading the accounts of the trial in the newspapers and how it was rumored that a lynch mob had tried to end the man's life. "I couldn't have you standing outside in this heat; besides, any friend of La Daaé's is welcome in my home."

A serving maid arrived, pushing an ebony cart laden with tea service, cakes, and biscuits. The duchesse dismissed the girl, intending to pour the tea herself, and served Erik before beginning a conversation.

"You're nothing at all as I had imagined from reading the papers," she said, eying the man sitting across from her appreciatively. Half of his face was covered with a flesh-colored mask, but the part that was exposed was pleasing to the eye. She considered herself a keen student of appearances, and liked what she saw sitting opposite her. Even the mask did not detract from what was a handsome face; in fact, it added to the allure, the way a dueling scar made a scamp look more attractive. The dark hair combed back suited him, and his grace of motion gave him an almost seductive appeal – though she was certain the man would protest that such was not the case.

Erik made a bitter face. "Newspapers? Those rags are only good for wrapping fish, for washing the windows, and for distorting the facts." He took a moment, deciding how open he dared to be. The duchesse came across as a woman who appreciated honesty, so he decided to test those waters. "You're not what I expected, either," he said.

The duchesse smiled and arched an eyebrow. "Oh? How so?"

"You do not pretend to be something other than what you are."

"You can tell all that by simply looking at me? Would you care to elaborate?" she asked encouragingly.

He took a deep breath before proceeding. "You are wearing the last year's fashion, when you obviously can afford the latest couture. This tells me that you don't care about appearances, but that you will have what you like--and nothing else. Your home is...impressive, yet comfortable. There are none of the latest fads that are so…common." He said the last word with a slight sniff of disdain. "Your shoes bear traces of garden soil," he continued. "As does your skirt where it trailed in the soil this morning while you were dividing your lilies. You haven't taken the time to change your clothes because you've been too busy with more important matters, no doubt matters concerning your children and the running of your household in your husband's absence."

The duchesse nearly choked on her tea. "All that? Monsieur Delacorte, I almost think you have been haunting me instead of Christine."

Erik bristled. "I haven't been haunting anyone. Most people see but do not observe, Madame. Observation is a trait that has served me well. Your husband's travels are a matter of public record. Your children are the center of your life; that much is certain." He pressed on, showing off a little. "The lilies border the fence near where I was waiting. It was easy to see that some of them had been recently transplanted. This very day, by the state of the soil, which shows every sign of being only recently dug up and tamped back down." He indicated the flowers on the table beside him. "And here are the blooms that are obviously freshly-picked and gracing the vases in this room. Plus, Christine…I mean, Mlle. Daaé has spoken of your fondness for gardening."

She let out a chuckle. "Very well. You have found me out, Monsieur. I shall not make the mistake of underestimating your acumen again. But back to the newspapers. You spoke of your great dislike for them yet you've sold your memoirs to one? May I ask why?"

He twisted uncomfortably in his chair. He would never admit that he needed the money. Instead, he said, "It gives me something to do."

"Besides following Christine wherever she goes?" There was no hostility in her question, merely curiosity.

"Whatever do you mean?" Erik huffed. "It so happens that I have business in the area, and Mlle. Daaé has accepted my offer to escort her safely to and from your door. Really, Duchesse, do you think a man in my position would...could...ever… that Christine..." He threw in the towel when he saw she wasn't about to back down. "Is it really so...obvious?"

"Does she know?" the duchesse asked sympathetically.

All the bluster and bravado were gone. Before her sat a very real and complex man, one who maintained a careful veneer of dignity in spite of the turmoil brewing inside him and that threatened to unglue him. "How can she not? I've always loved her." He scoffed at himself, a self-deprecating laugh that made her blood run cold. "I must content myself with platonic friendship, and be cursed grateful for it. Please excuse my rude language, Madame. I...the subject...it isn't one that I care to discuss."

"I understand," she said quietly. For a few interminable minutes, the only sound in the room was the ticking of the mantle clock and Erik's rapid breathing. "You know, Monsieur, Mlle. Daaé is an excellent teacher, but I think there are limitations in what she can do for my children. I was wondering if—that is, if you have the time and inclination—would you be so kind as to observe a lesson or two and advise Mlle. Daaé on technique?"

"Christine doesn't need my help," Erik snapped. He was annoyed with himself for falling into this woman's trap, and he was angry with her for putting him in this predicament. At the same time, he found it all painfully amusing. "She had an excellent teacher herself," he added, more softly this time. "The best in all of Paris." He leaned forward in a slight bow.

She sipped her tea and chose her response carefully. "Oh, I think you may be mistaken, Monsieur. Mlle. Daaé does need you. Anyone can see it."

Erik sat speechless as he puzzled over this revelation. "She tolerates me," he said after a long interval of silence. "I don't know why. I hardly think she 'needs' me, as you put it."

The duchesse threw him one of those indulgent smiles that was anything put patronizing. "If you say so."

Their tea was interrupted when the children came barreling into the parlor with Christine in tow. Her appearance was disheveled. Her hair had escaped its pins and fell free in long, loose tresses; her starched blouse needed tucking back into the waistband. When she saw him, her face broke into a radiant smile and she didn't even seem to notice her employer. "Erik! How good of you to come. I wasn't expecting you for at least half an hour."

He had never seen her look more beautiful than she did at this moment. _Damn her, the little viper! Curse her for winding her way around my heart! Delilah! _He stood up to greet her, and as he felt her hands grasp his in warm welcome, all bitterness faded away. _God, I love her so!_

With practiced precision, the children cried, "He's here! The phantom of the opera!"

Christine recovered quickly. "Shush, children. There is no phantom of the opera! This is my friend, Monsieur Delacorte."

"Madame le Duchesse was kind enough to invite me in for tea," he explained.

The girls executed ladylike curtsies. "Bonjour, Monsieur Delacorte," they said sweetly in unison.

He looked down at them formidably, the way a Maestro greets his pupils. "Bonjour, Mesdemoiselles." He stole a glance at their mother, and continued, "How are your lessons today?

"Terrible!" the little one complained, giggling the whole time. "La Daaé says my fingers are lazy!"

"And she says there is a toad in my throat!" the taller one said between peals of laughter.

Christine arched a brow. "I said, one must take care of her health, in order to sing." She turned to Annabella, and continued. "And one must practice the velocity etudes assigned, in order to learn stamina and flexibility that piano requires."

Erik knew an opening when he saw one. "Perhaps I could be of assistance?" he asked hopefully.

"Some other time," Christine replied, with a hint of remorse. "Our lessons are over for the day. Would you like to see the music room tomorrow, and go over the lesson plan I have written? Madame, would you mind? Erik, I mean, Monsieur Delacorte is the finest teacher in all of Paris."

"So I have heard," the duchesse replied. She smiled triumphantly. It wasn't often she had the chance to play Cupid, and she rather enjoyed it. "By all means, Monsieur. I would be pleased to have you collaborate with Mlle Daaé. If you are able to work us into your calendar, my husband and I would be most appreciative."

"Hurrah!" the children shouted while holding each other's arms and jumping up and down noisily.

Erik stared at them, aghast at what he'd gotten himself into. While Christine did her best to calm the children, he whispered to his conspirator, "If I didn't know better, I'd think you planned this."

"I might say the same of you, Monsieur," the duchesse said with a snort. "Let us both thank our lucky stars that it worked out this way. I would have disliked having to ask Bertram to escort any caller out. At his age, he might not remember his way back."

-0-0-0-


	16. Chapter 16

A very MERRY CHRISTMAS to all our readers!

~HD & Lizzy

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 16**

_The desire to be loved is the last illusion. Give it up and you will be free._  
~Margaret Atwood

0-0-0

"And that, dear readers, is how the Phantom ended his career as an Opera Ghost. _Finis_."

Erik leaned back in his chair and read the final chapter of his memoir, _Tales of an Opera Ghost_, over again and again. Tonight, after seeing Christine, he planned to drop in unannounced on Bruguière, deliver the manuscript, and be done with it. He had surprised himself when he found he actually enjoyed writing, especially once he got creative and began to play loose with the facts. It had been an interesting diversion, and had required him to focus on something useful. Great literature it was not, but it kept _les baguettes_ on the table. In fact, it had sold so well that his publisher was already pressuring him to write another volume, one that would explore the more exotic nooks and crannies that he had sidestepped in the original.

He shuddered. He didn't enjoy thinking about those days in Persia. It served no purpose to dwell on them. That is what motivated him to make up romantic tales. No one wanted to read the truth anyway. It would spoil their breakfast, and then they'd stop buying the paper. No, better leave those tales untold.

But those and other terrible memories had recently been replaced by one more splendid than he could have ever imagined. Only yesterday, she had kissed him! Heat rushed through his body as he remembered it.

-0-0-0-

_They had met as was their habit of late, but Erik had been tired. He had tried to cover a yawn, not wanting Christine to think ill of him, but it was no use._

_She had regarded him with a mixture of amusement and concern. "Late night?"_

_"I've been burning the midnight oil to finish my memoirs," he had admitted. "The sooner I am done with them, the better." He spoke gruffly, even though he did not mean it. Writing had allowed him to focus entirely on himself, and had led to more than a few interesting revelations. His checkered past had led to bold adventures as well as dreadful calamities, but he had to admit, it had been exciting. He might have behaved boorishly, but thank the gods, he'd never been a bore._

_"Why don't you lie down?" she had suggested cheerfully. "Put your head in my lap, and rest awhile."_

_It was an offer too tempting to refuse. He had seen other men relaxing with their lady-friends this way. It seemed…acceptable…even harmless. But those men were normal, not monsters like himself. "You wouldn't mind?" he had stammered, hesitant to put her in such an intimate position._

_"I wouldn't have offered if I didn't want you to do it," she had said firmly, but added gently, "Erik…I think we are past such formalities__;__ don't you agree?"_

_His heart had nearly burst with joy. He'd nodded dumbly, unable to utter a word, and lay himself down on the scratchy woolen blanket she had spread in the shade. It was the same blanket he held onto when he tried to sleep at night in his dismal apartment in a bad part of town. He treasured the worn and tattered coverlet above all his other worldly possessions, because it reminded him of their time together. When he lay alone in the dark, it comforted him._

_She had patted her lap, and ever so carefully, he gingerly laid his grotesque head precisely where she indicated._

_"Are you sure I'm not hurting you?" he had asked nervously. He could barely breathe._

_"Not at all." She had punctuated her remark with a light, carefree laugh that was meant to reassure him._

_He had forced himself to breath in and out, in and out, until his pulse began to slow. He distracted himself from the delirium of pure joy at his circumstance by watching the sunlight filtering through the lacy leaves of the locust trees, and by studying the patterns cast by the afternoon light as it made long shadows, and realized he'd begun to love this place. Their place._

_Not since before the disaster at the opera had he dared imagine such a predicament, and he could only hope she did not know that he was nearly overwhelmed by the nearness of her. "You know, as long as I live, I'll never forget these trees."_

_Seedpods had begun to fall from lofty heights, and he absent-mindedly broke one apart and held the contents in his hands, rubbing the thick seeds between his thumb and forefinger. Christine watched as he tucked a few into his pocket. She smoothed the hair of his wig away from his forehead. "Are you planning to plant those?"_

_"Perhaps someday." He closed his eyes as Christine massaged the temple on the exposed side of his face, willing himself to relax as her fingers strayed close to the mask. "Maybe one day I'll have a home, and I'll plant one to remind me of this spot." He chuckled, and added, "They say we French like locust trees because they remind us to be tenacious in the face of adversity." He left out the part about these trees symbolizing love beyond the grave. He would always love her, whether she returned his love or not. __Always._

_No wonder he was fond of this particular part of the Bois. It was their favorite __destination__ in the entire park, the place they often came for picnics, quiet conversation, and to relax in the warmth of each other's company. A trickle of perspiration coursed down the side of his nose, and he dabbed at it with a handkerchief. Christine frowned._

_"It's beastly hot, Erik. Summer's last gasp before Fall. I've taken off my hat and you've taken off your jacket." She lowered her voice and continued. "You know you may take off the--"_

_"I think not," he said gruffly, and rolled onto his side--mask side down. "Why do you have to make an issue of it? We were doing so well…."_

_"Pretending it doesn't exist?" she snapped. "Erik, you've never let me shun my fears."_

_He sat up quickly, making her fall back on her elbows. "I'm not afraid!" he protested._

_"You are! You're afraid I will tear off your mask, and expose you for all the world to see! Well, what if I did? There is no one here." She gestured to the empty space surrounding them. "And even if they were, who cares what they think?"_

_"Don't do this Christine! I'm warning you--"_

_"Warning me?" She blinked away angry tears and collected her thoughts. "I've learned my lesson, Erik. I won't unmask you ever again. Perhaps one day, when I've earned your trust, you'll believe me." She wrapped her arms around him and clung to him, her breath coming hot and fast against the fabric of his shirt._

_"Oh, Christine! If only you knew!" he said, with such sadness that her heart nearly broke in two._

_She kissed the side of his neck as she knelt behind him, and wrapped her arms around him to kiss the side of his face. Across his forehead, she left a trail of tiny kisses, until he turned his head and she found his grotesque lips, and then, the heat of the day was insignificant in comparison to the fire they generated between them._

_Erik broke away from her, holding her at arms' length and studying her for any sign of deceit before he crushed her against his chest and kissed her with all the pent-up passion that he had long held carefully in reserve. Desire threatened to carry him away._

_"Erik," she sighed. "Erik. I've waited so long for this moment."_

-0-0-0-

A loud noise from the street below brought him out of his reverie. He groaned in frustration, wishing he were still there, with her. They had kissed again and again, and who knows how far they would have gone if a dog running loose had not crashed into them. Polite apologies from boys in wild pursuit of their canine failed to impress him. The moment was lost.

_Damn it, you fool. You must woo her! A woman like Christine deserves to be courted. If you hope to have a chance with her, you must at least try. _He screwed his courage to the sticking post, threw his manuscript into a leather portfolio, and fled out the door on his way to Bruguière. So preoccupied was he with inner turmoil that he was halfway down the street before he thought to check whether or not he was wearing a mask, and to pat his pocket for his wallet.

There it was, safe inside his breast pocket, thick and heavy with the cash he had set aside. He had been frugal, living below his customary standards, with only one thought in mind: He would need it all for the gift he was having made for Christine. His apartment was spare, furnished only with the bare essentials, and as for food, well, he didn't require much.

The memoirs had earned him only a modest amount, but he was content in the knowledge that he'd been offered a contract for a novel--for which he could command a higher price, now that he was a proven success as an author. When he rounded the corner in a better part of town, he glanced into the jeweler's window and raised a hand in greeting.

The jeweler peered through the glass, looking into the bright afternoon sun with apprehension. Once recognition set in, he waved at Erik and marched double time to open the door for him. His plump wife followed quickly after him, her skirts rustling against her chubby thighs.

"_Merci_, Monsieur Lefèvre," Erik said, remembering how he used to be able to make his voice purr like the cat that swallowed the canary. In spite of the damage to his voice, he was still able to call up enough of his old talents to lull the couple into a sense of complacency.

Lefèvre bowed gratuitously, while Madame dipped in a shallow curtsy and chirped like a toad. "Monsieur Delacorte!" she gushed. "How good to see you! Would you like a cup of tea? A biscuit?"

Erik stared at her with indifference. "Is my order ready?" he asked.

"The emerald?" Lefèvre said excitedly. "Of course! Follow me. I keep it in the safe. A stone like that can't be left lying around, you know."

Erik followed him silently. No use wasting words on the tradesman. In the rear of the store, he sat at a brightly lit table and took note of the black velvet cloth and loupe waiting for his use. His sensitive hearing could detect the tumblers falling into place on the safe where the most valuable jewels were kept. If he listened hard enough, he could learn the sequence, especially since the stupid man mumbled the numbers as he spun the dial. Forty-three…twenty-six….five…. _Fools. I could clean them out tonight, ruin them, and they'd never know who did it._

"Gathering wool?" Mme Lefèvre asked. She was standing over him with a smug grin on her fat face, staring down at him triumphantly. He glared her into submission. He did not suffer fools lightly.

Monsieur Lefèvre brought forth a tray holding a single gem, an extraordinary emerald that Erik had kept hidden for many years. It was a souvenir from his days in the traveling fair at Nizhny-Novgorod, payment from a rich Tartar chief for a series of magical performances given for his numerous young sons and daughters. It had been honest work, and Erik was proud enough of it that he would offer it to Christine this very afternoon. If Fortuna smiled on him, she would consider it an engagement present. A jolt of electric heat ran through him at the thought of it, love of the most exquisite kind.

The Lefèvres backed away to allow him some privacy to examine the stone. He inspected it in the light, holding it high to evaluate the faceting, before looking at it closely through the loupe. It was exactly the same shade as Christine's eyes – those eyes that danced and sparkled whenever she looked at him. "Perfect," he whispered.

"My man cut away eighty-five percent of it, to get the clarity that you wanted," Lefèvre was explaining. Erik hadn't heard half of what the man said; he always seemed to be prattling, but his work was good. "There are some sizable fragments, a number of which we took the liberty of faceting for your consideration. I thought perhaps, that is, my wife suggested…well…we wondered if you would like to have a necklace and earrings made to match the ring."

"Perhaps," Erik replied. He stood straight up, aware of the effect his full height would have on the little round man and his corpulent wife. "For now, put the stone in the setting I requested."

"Yes, sir. Of course. It will only take a moment," Lefèvre responded obsequiously, and then withdrew to his worktable.

The woman nattered away, barely pausing for a breath between sentences. "It has everything a woman can desire. Color, cut, clarity, and carats—the four Cs. Just like a diamond, only better! Oh, sir," she chattered, "You are going to make a lucky young woman very happy! Very happy indeed! Imagine, the Phantom himself, at our shop. Why, all the fashionable people will want to come here!"

Erik turned slowly and pinioned her with his glare. "May I remind you," he said coldly, "that this is a private transaction, and I require your utmost discretion?"

She squirmed, but remained rooted to the spot. "I don't understand," she said weakly.

"It would not do," he said carefully, "not at all, if I were to find mention of this in, for instance, a newspaper." He edged closer to her, so smoothly he seemed to glide from one spot to the next. Or slither.

"No, sir, not at all," she said dumbly.

"I wouldn't be pleased if that were to happen," he said, as he stood close enough to her to smell her. He inhaled her expensive perfume of wood violets and yellow mimosa, and nearly gagged on the heady fragrance.

"Not pleased," she repeated, trance-like.

"There," the jeweler said, proudly presenting a blood-red velvet ring box to his client. "Rose gold filigree, with diamond pavé on the shanks and quarter carat diamond accents on either side of the emerald, exactly to your specifications. It is a magnificent design, sir, if I do say so. You'd make a good jeweler."

Erik placed an envelope filled with money on the table. "May I remind you, I have your strictest confidence?" He stared sternly at the Lefèvres. "I will return, if my lady approves of this…bauble."

"We look forward to it, sir," the jeweler replied, nudging his wife. "Don't we, my dear?"

She nodded and looked around like a scared rabbit, as though she had been daydreaming about hounds nipping at her heels. "We most assuredly do, sir," she stammered, but the uncertainty in her eyes made it clear that she did not believe her own words.

-0-0-0-

In her apartment, Christine was putting the finishing touches on her outfit and checking her hair for the umpteenth time in her hand mirror. Soon, Erik would arrive for their afternoon walk, and now that it had become their habit to meet, Christine packed a light meal for two in her little wicker basket – the one she had taken to Perros – confident that Erik would bring the lap blanket that he always carried with him for their walks. He knew she enjoyed sitting in the shade of the acacias, or black locust trees, and watching the swans glide across the still water of the nearby lake. She hummed as she wrapped chunks of cheese and thinly sliced meat in waxed paper, and then threw in a couple of fresh apples from the recent harvest.

Sometimes, Erik suggested that they stop at a café for a bite to eat, a place where the staff went to great lengths to respect their privacy. Tonight, though, she wanted to be alone with him—as alone as one can be at a public park. An intense sensation of heat and excitement coursed through her body as she recalled his kisses. Perhaps tonight, they could recreate the magic moment, and he would sweep her into his arms and kiss her over and over again. She shivered with delight as the doorbell rang, telling her that he had arrived. She flew down the stairs across the room and flung open the door.

At the sight of the tall, impeccably dressed, broad-shouldered, blond man standing on the top step, a gasp escaped her. "Raoul! What a surprise." She was so shocked by his unexpected arrival that it took a moment to recover her graces. "It's good to see you, but I'm afraid I was just heading out."

"This will only take a moment, Christine," he said with a frown. "It's important that I tell you myself, before you read it in the papers." He looked over her shoulder, apparently considering asking her if he could come inside her apartment, and then thought better of it.

This indecisiveness was uncharacteristic of the dashing man she had once considered marrying. "What is it, Raoul?" she asked, genuinely concerned.

He pursed his lissome lips, reluctant to answer, as though what he had to say pained him. Better to get it over with quickly. "I've…met someone, Christine."

Such relief! It flooded through her, but at the same time, an unwelcome moment of jealousy niggled at the back of her mind. It was irrational; she was glad he had found another woman. Wasn't she?

"I'm so happy for you," she heard herself saying. "It's about time you met a woman who will treat you the way you deserve."

Raoul looked around furtively, realized that people were staring at him. It wasn't every day that an aristocrat's brougham pulled up to a doorstep in this neighborhood, and besides, he and Christine both still bore the stigma of recent notoriety. Their doomed romance had been fodder for the gossip columns for months. "We're beginning to attract onlookers. Let's go inside."

She put her hand out to stop him, but oblivious to her denial, he walked right into it. Her hand, at once delicate but firm, rested on his chest. "I don't think so, Raoul. As I said, I was leaving. I mustn't be late."

He stepped closer to her, clearly not wanting anyone else to overhear him. "Very well, then," he said quietly. "I wanted to tell you the good news. I'm to be married!"

-0-0-0-

Erik patted the ring in his pocket, imagining Christine's reaction. He would arrive at her doorstep at the usual time, pretending to just happen to be walking past when she emerged from her building for her customary walk. Their "chance meetings" had become something of a game between them, both knowing that their meeting was entirely intentional, but pretending that it was coincidental nonetheless otherwise. She would feign surprise, and he would pretend to be a gentleman.

"My dear Christine!" he might exclaim. "Fancy meeting you here. Care for a walk?"

She would play along. "Erik! What an unexpected delight! Don't mind if I do."

Then, she would put her divine arm in his unholy one, and they would walk down the street together, like any other couple. He rounded the corner, content in his daydream, knowing that the reality of it would be sublime, and when he looked up, he froze as his the world was shattered around him.

He slunk back against the cold façade of the building, hidden from sight by a thorny bush espaliered against the wall. Even from this distance, he could make out Raoul and Christine in the doorway of her apartment building. His mind reeled as fragments of their conversation were carried to him on the evening breeze.

"Engaged! Oh, Raoul, I couldn't be happier!"

He felt sick to his stomach as she hugged the boy, and, adding insult to injury, she kissed both of his perfect, rosy cheeks.

The boy responded fervently. Who wouldn't, being kissed by an angel? "Christine," he gushed, "I would never have believed I could be this happy. And to think, it's all because of you." He kissed her lightly on the lips, then pulled back to gaze into her eyes.

They appeared supremely happy, the two of them, standing there in broad daylight for all the world to see. And why not, he thought. They make a beautiful couple. They deserve each other. The sight of it sent stabbing pains through his gut, a wrenching agony that radiated through his entire being.

It was obvious even to Erik that the events of the past year had taken a toll on them, and they'd come out the wiser for it. The sun disappeared behind a cloud, and Erik felt dizzy and disoriented as the truth screamed in his mind. _I've been a fool! It was only a matter of time before handsome Prince Charming returned to reclaim his princess. Of course, she wants him. He's…perfect.  
_  
Erik turned away, unable to bear it any longer. He clasped his hand over his mouth as his gorge rose. He dropped the picnic blanket he had been carrying and stumbled a few feet away. A terrible picture of Christine flashed through his mind. It was an imaged burned into his brain the night he abducted her from the stage during _Don Juan Triumphant_. She was both angry and terrified, and stood in the frigid lake sobbing hysterically as she begged him to spare Raoul's life.

Rage and shame waged war inside him. He was appalled at himself, and saw himself truly for the first time: He was nothing more than a robber bridegroom, a danger to Christine's happiness, while "the boy" was kind and honest and…true.

An acrid odor assaulted his nostrils, and he realized it was his own vomit that he smelled. Retching had left him feeling weak and dirty. Erik staggered home, barely able to see where he was heading. He forced himself to put one foot in front of another, faster and faster, until he was running as fast as he could. Back to his lair! Away from Christine! It was the best he could do.

Blindly he ran, forcing his way through crowded streets, until he realized he had run straight to the park that he loved so well, straight back to the place that held his fondest memories. He fell on his knees at the edge of the swan lake, and cried aloud, emptying his rage and his pain into the empty air. He howled out his shame and his sorrow, knowing no one would hear him—and if they did, no one would care.

In his pocket sat the ring—Christine's ring—making a mockery of his love. He fumbled with it as he took it out of his pocket, noting for the first time the irony of the red velvet case that kept it shiny and safe. With a roar of anguish, he hurled it as far as he could, and watched the ripples spread across the black, glassy surface of the water as it sank to the murky bottom.

Afterwards, he hardly remembered stumbling back to the hovel that he called home. He ran up the long flights of stairs of his decrepit apartment house and burst through the door of his room, slamming it with all his might before bolting himself inside his dismal cocoon. Only then, when he was safe and alone, did he allow himself the luxury of abject tears.

It was well past dark when he began to write a letter to Christine--_his_ Christine no more. He was careful of his penmanship, because words were all he had to offer her now. When he had said everything he had to say, he sealed the paper with wax and scoffed at himself for not having a proper seal – preferably, his old one, with its death's head emblem -- and gathered up his belongings. Paris had brought him nothing but heartache. He would leave tonight, never to return.

On his way out, he flagged down a messenger boy and sent him to Christine with the letter and the nykelharpa. Soon, he'd be far from Paris, and out of her life for good.

-0-0-0-

Christine stewed as she recalled the details of Raoul's unexpected visit, and how she shoved him away after he kissed her. He'd been apologetic; she had been furious.

_"Raoul! How dare you!" She could barely stop herself from striking him._

_For his part, he had been genuinely sorry. "Forgive me, please. I don't know what I was thinking!"_

_"You should be thinking of your fiancée!" she had spat._

_His rosy cheeks had glowed an unflattering scarlet as he had cleared his throat nervously. "Quite right. I'll be going now." He had started down the steps, but hesitated on the last one. He'd looked over his shoulder, not quite ready to face her full on. "You'll come to the wedding, won't you?"_

_"I think it would be better if I didn't, Raoul," she had said tersely._

_"Again, you are right," he had answered. He stepped onto the sidewalk and, at a safe distance at last, he turned to her. "I'll never see you again, will I?"_

_She had squared her shoulders, standing straight and strong. "It's for the best."_

_His own shoulders had sagged almost imperceptibly. Anyone else might not have noticed, but Christine knew him well. "He's a lucky man," he had replied._

_"What do you mean by that?" She was furious with his impertinence._

_"Delacorte," he had replied, with a cavalier shrug. "Tell him…tell him that I wish you both the best. _

At least two hours had passed since Raoul's unexpected visit, and Christine had begun to pace in the drawing room. She kept watch out the window for Erik's arrival, but it was dark now, and he was long overdue. Her imagination was running wild, and she couldn't help worrying. What if he was sick, or had been injured? The way the deliverymen drove, he might have been run down by a horse cart! She couldn't bear the thought of him injured and alone. She jumped at the rapping of an urgent knock at the door, and ran to answer it. She threw open the door and stared at the startled urchin below her.

The boy handed her a letter. "For Mademoiselle Daaé," he said, setting down a large case before melting into the darkness. Recognizing Erik's careful handwriting on the envelope, she tore open the letter and leaned into the light to make out the cursive.

_My dear Christine,_

_I would struggle with all the misfortune of this world to shield you from harm, but I must leave Paris and go far away. Otherwise, I cannot help but be drawn to you--for you are all Life, all Joy, to me. And I am willing--perfectly willing--to lay down all my pleasures in this life, to help maintain your newfound independence and to pay my debt to you. I lay down nearly all of my happiness in doing so, and willingly replace them with cares and sorrows._

_After having eaten for long years the bitter fruit of orphanage myself, I must take it once again as my only sustenance. Is it weak or dishonorable that my unbounded love for you should struggle in fierce, useless contest with my black despair?_

_I cannot describe to you my feelings on this calm September night, when I know I will never see you again. The better angels of my nature are at war with the baser ones. It would be easy -- oh so easy -- to run to you and beg for your love. I have sought most closely and diligently for a wrong motive in my plans and I could not find one. A pure love of the principles that I have often advocated and "the Name that I love more than I fear death" have called upon me, and I have obeyed._

_O Christine, my love for you is endless. It seems to bind me to you with mighty cables that nothing but Omnipotence could break; and yet my love for you comes over me like a strong wind and bears me irresistibly to a foreign land. The memories of the blissful moments I have spent at your side come creeping over me, and I feel blessed that I have enjoyed them so long. I have, I know, but few and small claims upon Divine Providence, but something whispers to me that I must depart if you are to succeed._

_Forgive my many faults, and the pain I have caused you. How thoughtless and foolish I have often been! How gladly would I wash out with my tears every little spot upon your happiness!_

_Never forget how much I love you. When my last breath escapes me, it will whisper your name._

_~E_


	17. Chapter 17

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 17**

**By HDKingsbury and MadLizzy**

Happy New Year, everyone! Sorry; in all the hectic activities this week, I nearly forgot to post!

"_Chaotic action is preferable to orderly inaction."_  
~Will Rogers

-0-0-0-

She sank to the floor like a rag doll while stark and unyielding sorrow gripped her. Erik was leaving Paris, leaving her. "Oh, God, no," she wept. "He must have seen us. He must have seen Raoul and…and…must think.…"

She reached out and ran her hands over the instrument case, her mind flailing wildly, until at last she knew what she had to do. She had to find him, to explain this unfortunate misunderstanding, to straighten out this terrible mess. Erik had never told her where he was currently living, but that was not going to deter her. Grabbing her reticule and hat, and oblivious to her disheveled appearance, she ran out the door, searching desperately for the messenger boy. As luck would have it, he was still around, lounging near the corner, proudly boasting to a group of boys that he had run an errand for the Phantom.

"Where is he?" she demanded, pointing to the crumbled letter clenched in her fist.

His companions disappeared, one of them mumbling something about "_Bon chance, mon ami," _leaving the young lad to face Christine alone. He cowered slightly at her accusatory tone. "He give me a whole franc to deliver it t'ya," he replied. "I ain't done nothin' wrong! I brung it to you whole, I did, Miss. It ain't broken or nothin' is it?"

"Take me to his house," she commanded, showing him another franc that would be his if he complied. He snapped to attention and, pulling her along, took her to a part of town she had never seen before.

Along the way, Christine saw the woolen blanket lying in the gutter—the blanket that she and Erik had used for their picnics. She picked it up and folded it over her arm, knowing that it was proof that Erik had seen her with Raoul.

As they walked, she was only vaguely aware of the direction in which they were headed, but the decline in the appearance of the houses caught her attention. _This was not a good part of town, not at all_, she thought. Under normal circumstances, she would not even dream of setting foot there. _Certainly not without an escort!_ The thought of making her way alone through the twisting, narrow streets made her shudder, but she clung to the notion of finding Erik like an anchor, using it to strengthen her resolve.

The boy brought her to a rundown apartment house, collected his franc and left. During the day, it probably did not look any worse than many another residences that had seen better times, but tonight it was dark and foreboding, its darkened windows staring out on the street like vacant eyes. Squaring her shoulders, she mustered all her courage and mounted the steps, ready to enter Erik's new lair. On the wall inside the doorway was scribbled a set of names with corresponding room numbers. Beside the apartment listed on the top floor were the initials "O.G." _How like Erik_, she thought, and headed straight for the apartment, climbing the stairs as fast as she could.

She halted on the landing at the top floor, unsettled when she noticed that the outer door was ajar. She approached it cautiously. "Erik?" she called, but it was no use. There was no response. Hesitantly, she stepped inside.

The only illumination in the dingy apartment was the weak light from the setting sun, pouring through a small window. She quickly took in her surroundings, noting with despair the barren walls and worn rug, the small desk and wooden chair near the window. In a smaller room off to the side, there was a simple cot pushed against one wall. The rooms were was clean, but devoid of any color or comforts. There was not even a cushion to sit upon, and only a few cracked dishes were stacked on the open shelf in what had to be the smallest kitchen she had ever seen, alongside a few stored dry goods. A more stark contrast from his home under the opera could not be imagined! It pained her to think of him, her Erik, who loved art and beauty, living in such austere circumstances.

"How lonely he must have been!" she whispered to herself.

The sight of the apartment only increased her need to find him, but where to turn next? There were no clues lying around – no pieces of paper with travel plans written on them, no train schedules or maps. She considered what she should do, where she should go next, when it came to her. There would be only one person who might know where Erik had gone…Bruguière!

She hurried outside and flagged down a passing cab pulled by an underfed workhorse, calling out the address when it ground to a halt. "As fast as you can!" she told the driver, pressing money in his grimy hand as she climbed inside.

-0-0-0-

Édouard Bruguière rubbed his tired eyes as he turned down the gaslights in his office. It had been a long day, and he was looking forward to his soft, warm bed. Then he sighed in frustration. Footsteps ringing on the marble of the corridor leading to his office suite alerted him that he would have to postpone his trip home.

The frantic pounding on the door gave him a start, but not nearly so much as the sight of Christine Daaé bursting into his office, demanding to know where Erik had gone. He ushered her to a chair and insisted that she sit, so that they could hold a civil conversation. He had little sympathy for her, not after the meeting he'd had earlier with Erik, but when he saw how anxious she appeared, he found himself almost feeling sorry for her.

"Calm yourself, Mademoiselle. Sit down and have a drink of water." He filled a glass and offered it to her, not surprised when she pushed it aside with the back of her gloved hand. "I have no idea where he is, and even if I did, I wouldn't tell you. Don't you think you've hurt him enough?"

She flinched. Truth was harsh. "You're right. I have hurt him in the past, but please, if you ever thought kindly of me, even just a little, you must help me. I must find him! _I must!_"

He was accustomed to histrionics in court and had seen enough of the young woman on stage to know that she could be quite convincing when she wanted to be. He steeled himself not to be swayed by her dramatics.

"Oh, I see! You love him! And when, may I ask, did you realize this? Was it after you read in the papers that he will make a fortune when his next book is published? Or was it when you agreed to marry the vicomte?" He sat heavily in his chair behind his massive desk, distancing himself from her behind a mountain of paperwork. "You should know by now that he has left Paris. He has turned his back on all that money, has broken his parole and has said his farewells." He braced himself for the worst when she stood up and walked quickly to his side.

It was not in anger that she approached him, though. Instead, Christine knelt beside him and took his hands in hers, pleading for understanding. "You have every right to think poorly of me," she told him, "but I implore you to listen to me. Raoul came by to tell me that he is engaged to be married. He wanted me to hear it directly from him, not to read it in the papers. We have been friends for many years, after all. I gather that Erik must have seen him at my home and jumped to conclusions. Is that true?"

His wreath of woolly gray hair shone with the reflected gaslight as he slowly nodded his head.

"You must hear me out." Her breath came as fast as her heartbeat and her divine voice cracked when she said, "Monsieur Bruguière, you must believe me. I care for Erik and I must find him before it is too late! If you believe nothing else, believe I am his friend."

"I do, Mademoiselle," he said softly. He stroked her head as she wept into his hands. "You might try the train stations heading north. During our weekly meetings, he often spoke of wanting to live in a cooler climate, especially since it has been so unseasonably warm this past summer. One where there is less sun. He prefers the nighttime, you know."

_Darkness stirs_. She heard those words as clearly as if Erik were standing beside her. "He told you that?"

"You have much to learn about him. When he came here to tie up loose ends, he said that he wanted to see the northern countries before he died, that this would somehow allow him to feel closer to you."

She gasped as a new terror gripped her. "Before he died?" she echoed.

The lawyer appeared startled, as an unpleasant idea formed in his head. "I presumed he was speaking figuratively. You don't really think he means to harm himself, do you?"

"I've seen his apartment tonight, saw the way he's been living," she said bitterly. "What does he have to live for, I ask you? He's been alone his entire life, and today…." She made up her mind. "Well, I won't allow it. I've got to do something."

Bruguière touched her elbow, and she looked up at his face. "Are you thinking of wandering the streets alone, looking for him? You cannot do that, Mademoiselle. I cannot allow it."

A stern expression crossed her face. There was no time to talk sense into this man. "Try to stop me," she dared.

-0-0-0-

In spite of her determination when she left the attorney's office, Christine had, in fact, ended up wandering the streets aimlessly, her mind awhirl as she sought to sort everything out. She felt like a rudderless boat tossed about on an angry sea. How could something like this have happened? She had done nothing wrong. Why couldn't Erik have trusted her? Why hadn't he come to her and ask her what the meeting with Raoul was all about?

_Damn him! No. No, that's not right_. _If I hadn't broken his trust in the first place…if I had accepted his command about his mask…But haven't I already made up for that? Didn't I help him when he was in prison? Didn't I defend him in court? _

She looked around and realized she had been walking for hours. The sun had long since set and clouds were moving in from the west. In the distance could be heard the low rumble of thunder. The day had been hot, summer not quite willing to release its grip on the city. Under ordinary circumstances, she would be looking forward to a cooling rain, but these were not ordinary circumstances. Nearby, a clock tower was striking the hour. In her present state of mind, the tolling sounded funereal, but it also brought her to her senses. Paying more attention to her surroundings, she found that her wanderings had been bringing her closer and closer to her own apartment. A streak of lightning ripped through the sky and briefly illuminated the street, followed by an almost immediate thunderous reply. There was no time to waste. The storm was closing in, and she needed to get off the street.

Giant drops of rain spattered down while a gust of wind tried to knock her off her feet. Grabbing her skirts, she set off at a trot, hoping the get home before the deluge began in earnest. She had just made it into the foyer when the heavens opened up. The rain was being blown almost horizontal and tree branches were tossed about with drunken glee. Small, loose objects skittered across the street, like ghostly apparitions unleashed by the tempest.

Inside the foyer, she quickly slammed the door behind her. She paused for a moment to shake out her skirt and was about to dash up to her room and change into some dry clothes when she heard voices coming from the parlor.

"I'm sorry, Madame."

Christine paused. That was Mme Moreau's voice and she did not sound happy. "The hour is late and I run a respectable establishment. If you wish to speak to Mlle Daaé, you must come by tomorrow."

"This is an urgent matter," replied the other person. "By tomorrow morning, it may be too late."

Christine froze in her steps. The other voice belonged to Mme Giry! What on earth was she doing here, and at this hour? The last thing Christine wanted to do was talk to somebody, not even her landlady, whose company she normally enjoyed. She had too much on her mind right now and did not need this added aggravation. Then again, it did not sound as though the ballet mistress was willing to give in. Taking a quick look in the foyer mirror and straightening out her appearance as best she could, Christine took a deep breath and headed towards the parlor.

-0-0-0-

Once inside the room, she acknowledged both women and with a nod and indicated her willingness to speak to Mme Giry. The proprietor excused herself and left the two of them alone. The tall, older woman waited until the door was shut and she could hear Mme Moreau's footsteps fade away. Satisfied that they would not be overheard, she rose up to her full height, every inch of her now the stern ballet mistress of the past. She thumped her walking stick on the wooden floor loudly, as was her habit when she was miffed. In her right hand was a piece of paper that she shook angrily in Christine's direction.

"You damned spoiled little brat!" she spat out. "What did you do to him this time?"

Christine fell into the chair, near the end of her rope. "I didn't do anything!" she cried in anguish. She was still clutching Erik's blanket, holding it to her chest like a child with a soother.

Mme Giry nervously paced the room. "You must have done something! How do you explain this?" She thrust the letter she was holding at Christine. Her already-red eyes welled with tears as she read what Erik had written.

_Do not bother to seek me out, Madame. It seems that, at last, our partnership must be severed completely and irrevocably. Too late, I have come to realize that I am nothing but a foolish man whose best years – if they may be called such – are past him. I am leaving France for good. _

"He must have seen Raoul here, with me," Christine struggled to get the words out before breaking down completely. Unable to hold back any longer, she broke down into quaking sobs that left her barely able to speak. "I was on my way to meet Erik for our afternoon walk," she said, hiccupping between phrases. "We…we've been meeting in the afternoon when I finish giving lessons to the duchess's daughters." The sobs grew heavier now, and she was gulping for breaths of air like a person drowning. "I can only imagine what he must have thought. It…it must have looked awful. I…I told Raoul that he should go, but he was only here to tell me he is engaged. I swear it!"

Mme Giry took in a deep breath and exhaled slowly. "Yes, I remember now," she said. Her voice was not so sharp this time, but sad with understanding. "There have been rumors floating around the opera house about the vicomte's new ladylove. But why didn't you simply explain this to Erik?"

"B-because he never gave me a chance. He…he never showed up for our walk. I was b-becoming worried th-that he had taken ill, and then this was delivered by a street urchin." She pulled the wrinkled letter from her pocket and handed it to Mme Giry.

She read the missive and let out an exasperated sigh. "Such fools! Both of you!"

"But…but what should I do?"

"What should you do? Foolish girl! You should go after him. Tell him the truth."

Christine held her head between her hands, forcing herself to calm down. "But where? I don't know where he's gone. If I knew, I would run after him. I…I would have...I would do anything. I went to his apartment, but it has been vacated. After that, I ran to Monsieur Bruguière's office, but he knew little more than I did."

"He left no clue as to where he was going?"

A fragment of the conversation with Bruguière came back to her. What was it the attorney had said? Something about going north, to be closer to her?

_You might try the train stations heading north. He often spoke of wanting to live in a cooler climate, especially since it has been so unseasonably warm this summer. One where there is less sun. He prefers the nighttime, you know..._

Understanding dawned on her. "He is leaving the country, going north." She saw Madame's eyes widen with puzzlement. "It's something Monsieur Bruguière said. Erik called upon him earlier, apparently to settle his affairs. He said I might want to try the train stations heading north."

"North? I don't understand."

"He told the attorney he wanted to live in a place where he'd feel closer to me. He must mean Sweden!"

"Then what are you waiting for? Go now, before it's too late."

"How will I know which route he took? Did he take the train or a coach?" Gathering her wits about her, Christine rose from her seat. "Thank you, Madame, for bringing this to my attention," she said. Her words sounded artificial and formal, but what else could she say? It was easy to say that she should go after him. Easier said than done. She needed time to think and said so to Mme Giry.

Mme Giry likewise rose. "Don't wait too long," she advised, giving Christine a cross look as she watched the young woman ascend the stairs to her room.

-0-0-0-

Back in her room, Christine was sitting on the edge of her bed, trying to decide what to do next. Mme Giry said she should follow her heart and go after Erik. In the heat of the moment, it had seemed the right thing do but, but was it? Did she really love Erik, or was it only sympathy and compassion. So far, there has been little more than the comfort and joy of friendship.

_Stupid fool!_ she told herself. _Of course, there is more than friendship involved. Have you so easily forgotten how he spoke to you of the music of the night and how he made you feel when he kissed you? When he sang to you of letting your mind start a journey to a strange new world, what did you think he was talking about – a trip to Rouen?_

"But the truth is I'm a coward. I am afraid of making this final break from the life I have always known. There's no one here to tell me what I should do and I'm…I'm afraid!" She began to sob again and wished for someone to tell her what to do, and then the memory of a voice came to her. It was a voice she once thought belonged to an angel.

_Wandering child, so lost, so helpless_

_Yearning for my guidance…_

"Papa, I wish you were here to help me." Christine did not even realize she had been speaking aloud until Mme Giry answered her.

"Are you still seeking help from ghosts?" She entered the room and sat next to Christine, taking the young woman's cold, pale hands into her own. Whatever anger she had been feeling earlier was long dissipated. She knew that Christine had spoken the truth, that Erik – fool that he could sometimes be – had jumped to conclusions. The wrong conclusion, and now he had gone and compounded his mistake by making yet another, by fleeing. _Stupid man, when will he learn to trust?_

Christine looked up with reddened eyes. "I…I thought you'd gone." She stroked the woolen blanket that she was still carrying, and regarded it ruefully.

"I was about to, when I remembered something. If you are going to be traveling, you may need some funds. No, do not both to deny it. Here." She pulled some franc notes from her reticule. "It's not much, but it will surely pay for the price of train ticket, perhaps a meal or two as well."

"Thank you," Christine said, her voice barely above a whisper.

Madame smiled encouragingly. "So, are you going after him?"

At last, Christine knew that exactly what she had to do, and having made her decision, felt a great burden lifted from her already. "Yes. I don't know if I could live with myself otherwise. I would spend the rest of my life second guessing myself, wondering what would have happened if I had done things differently. Perhaps I will find Erik, and perhaps I will not. But I have to try."

Mme Giry patted her hand in a comforting way. "Yes, the worst thing in the world that can happen to any of us is to live with regrets."

"Madame, I must ask you, how do you know so much about Erik? You came to me when he was in prison; you denied knowledge of him on the witness stand and I suspect you know more about the disappearance of certain pieces of incriminating evidence than a woman in your position should. And now tonight?"

The woman smiled enigmatically. "Let us just say that Erik and I have known each other for many years, back to when he first arrived in Paris."

"How long ago was that?"

Madame shrugged. It was obvious from her hesitation that this was a subject she did not care to discuss. "Let me help you pack," she said, changing the topic. "Where's your portmanteau? In the closet? You probably need to write to your employer. I'm sure the Duchess of Zurich will want to know what has become of her children's favorite music instructor."

"Oh dear!" Christine gasped, having forgotten all about the music lessons she was supposed to give tomorrow. "I must send her a note, explaining that I will be unavailable."

"Write and tell her that an emergency has come up. Don't worry; I'll deliver the letter myself and vouch for the veracity of whatever you decide to tell her."

"You seem to be making a habit of covering for others' indiscretions," Christine said, trying to hide the smile that was trying to form on her face.

"Perhaps you should tell her the truth, that there has been a misunderstanding between you and your 'gentleman friend' that needs to be corrected. She will understand."

"You appear certain of this."

"I am. The Duchess of Zurich was not born into the aristocracy nor with a silver spoon in her mouth. She was once a ballerina who fell in love with a nobleman. She knows what it means to follow one's heart. But this was before your time, before you came to study at the Conservatory."

Christine remembered how at ease Erik had seemed with the duchesse the other day. Yes, perhaps the lady _would_ understand. Sitting at her small desk, she wrote. While she was doing this, Mme Giry pulled the portmanteau from the closet and started packing what clothes she felt would be needed on this trip. "I'll take care of seeing that the rest of your belongings are stored until you either return or send for them," she said, knowing Christine could not possibly take everything with her.

Another matter that had slipped her mind. Thank goodness Mme Giry had come by tonight! "That is very generous of you, Madame."

"Not at all," the older woman winked. "I'll keep track of any charges." She was relieved when she saw Christine actually give out a weak laugh. _At last, she's getting her wits back._

As Christine scribbled away, Mme Giry pulled open a drawer and saw the wedding dress. _So, she kept this?_ She hesitated. Should she ask Christine about this? _No,_ _I'll just pack it in with the rest of the clothes, and if God is watching over these two, then just maybe…_

"Here," said Christine, handing the letter to Mme Giry. She looked up at the clock on the mantel. The hour was late. "I wonder which station I should try first. There are so many of them."

"If he's heading north, then I suggest we try the northern station, the Gare du Nord, first."

"We?"

"Of course. You don't think I am going to let you go to the station by yourself, do you? That would be most improper, especially at this hour!"

Her bags packed and her explanation to the duchesse written, Christine quickly washed and changed into a plain but serviceable dress, then with Madame's help, combed her hair and put it up into a severe bun. No sense calling undue attention to herself with fancy clothes and a fashionable coiffure. "There," she said. "I'm as ready as I'll ever be."

"Good," Mme Giry said with a nod of approval. "Then let us go."

"You love him, don't you?" Alone with Mme Giry, Christine finally dared to breach the question.

Giry's response surprised her. "It doesn't matter," she replied evasively. "He has only ever loved one woman." She stared out the window and watched the rain as it fell, avoiding Christine's searching gaze. She paused before saying, "A man who needs your love can be.....something wonderful."


	18. Chapter 18

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 18**

**By HDKingsbury and MadLizzy  
**

Authors' Note: Our apologies for being "off schedule" again. Trying to get back into the swing of things now that the holidays are passed. Hope you all enjoy this next installment. ~HD & ML

-0-0-0-

_I love mankind; it's people I can't stand._  
~Charles Schultz

-0-0-0-

Alone in his compartment, Erik huddled in his opera cloak, fending off the damp and cold that had come on the heels of the passing storm. The train chugged through the night heading northeast, spewing smoke and cinders into the darkness. The worst of the storm was past, but occasional flashes of lightning revealed a desolate landscape that was as flat and barren as his soul.

More than a dozen years after the Franco-Prussian War, the countryside still bore the wounds of misfortune. The terrain of northeast France, having no natural defenses such as mountain ranges or large bodies of water, had provided a gateway for centuries of invasions, including every type of marauder from ancient Huns and Vikings to modern Prussians. The latter were only the latest and, with their coalition of Germanic forces, they had developed emerging technologies that literally blew away any resistance. When they finally left, the farmers remained, eking out subsistence from land soaked in blood.

Erik stared out the window, clutching his stomach, nearly doubled over by the constant aching. It had been hours since he emptied its contents on the street near Christine's apartment, but the sense of loss cut through him like a knife. He had barely recognized his own voice when he stumbled into the _Chemin de Fer du Nord_ train station, with its grandiose architecture and pretentious name: The Iron Horse of the North. He sought the quickest way out of town, wanting only to be far from Paris, far from _her_.

He embraced the darkness and solitude once again. It was good to be alone, away from prying eyes and the endless curiosity of strangers. Leaving Paris would be a relief, he told himself. Surely, he would escape his newfound notoriety. He would do all in his power to keep it from following him to the remote reaches of foreign shores…and the sooner he did so, the better.

Providence had other ideas, though, and continued to come up with more ways to prolong his agony. The ticket seller had told Erik to expect delays in the wake of the storm. Reports were coming in of fallen tree branches and other debris that needed to be cleared from the tracks. Bridges also had to be inspected for damage before the passenger locomotive would be permitted to pass over them. The ticket seller had also suggested staying the night in Paris and catching the morning express, but had not been an option as far as Erik was concerned. And so he had hunkered down in the train station waiting to board, seeking shelter from the storm.

Although the train was eventually speeding along at an impressive thirty miles per hour, it would be another five hours before they arrived at the station. Erik looked over the schedule and made some calculations. He knew that once they arrived in Lille, there would be at least a three-hour delay before continuing on northeastwards. It was past midnight, meaning that the sun would be up by the time they reached Lille. It would be daylight. That meant he would need to find a place to wait until his connecting train could be embarked. _Bother._

"I should have gone South," he muttered to himself, and unbidden, a terrible thought rose in the recesses of his mind. _I should have taken Christine with me, dragged her off, made her understand how much I…love her. Love. It does terrible things to a man, makes him behave in ways he never knew he could._ He grimaced as he remembered regretfully how he had deceived her and preyed upon her innocence, and done his best to force her to be his bride.

With a grim laugh, he recalled one of the tales she had been fond of telling him. It was about a hideous troll who spied a beautiful, golden-haired princess one day. The monster considered dragging the girl off to eat her, and then imagined himself kissing her with his ugly mouth. The troll had kept on walking, knowing that tainting the girl's purity with his own putrescence would be his undoing. _Wise move, _he thought. _I kissed my princess, and the taste of her is slowly killing me—or rather, the want of it. _

_What is it about her that is so compelling that I abandon all logic, all reason, and bow down before her in shuddering reverence? No one else has such power over me. Never before have I yielded control to another person. Since the first time I saw her, I have been unconsciously in her thrall, standing before her in such a way that if she had been water, I would surely have drowned. _

_Why she was intrigued by me, I'll never know. I am the thing her father warned her about, the Troll King, the demon with his lair by the water, who lures beautiful young women to their deaths. Yet, she never seemed afraid of me—not until the boy came back into her life and reminded her of all that he could offer her, in his world. _

He berated himself for his lack of foresight._ Intrigue? I am the one who was bewitched, not her! Slavery is dead and gone in the Western world; all men are equal under the law, and yet, I have surely enslaved myself to that girl. This is the age of the iron horse, of juggernauts that can destroy an entire countryside in a matter of minutes, of steam and electricity and multiplex knives! But poor, sad Erik is powerless before a pretty girl. _

He pulled down the compartment window shade on the door to the inner corridor, and secured the lock before taking off his hat and cloak. Too tall to lie across the bench, he propped his long legs upon the seat across from him. He rested his head on the windowpane of the outer door and considered the few personal relationships he'd ever had. In all his life, there had been precious few people he could remotely consider friends. Giry was perhaps one. It was true that she had never betrayed him, and she had been a good business partner. Still, he doubted he would ever forgive her for leading the boy to his home. If she had not interfered, he could have been married to his angel. He choked at the thought of it, knowing it would have destroyed Christine. _No, it is better this way. She'll be…happy…with the boy._

If only he could sleep, forget about her for a few unconscious moments, but every time he closed his eyes, he remembered their last day by the swan lake, and how she had gazed into his eyes after he kissed her. He shook his head to clear the cobwebs and focused his attention on his short list of reliable people: Édouard Bruguière. Now, there was an honest man, a man one could rely on. He had provided a competent defense, but would never know that the some of the evidence that set his client free was, to say the least, tainted. He had held everything revealed to him in confidence, and had not—so far—betrayed Erik in any way. Bruguière would continue to act as Erik's agent in his absence. In the final analysis, he thought enough of the man to entrust him with his last will and testament before setting off on this strange journey to the North.

It was apparent that most of his suffering and turmoil was caused by Christine's rejection. She had been his last hope of living like an ordinary man, in a regular house, occupied by mundane activities and distractions. He was accustomed to being an outcast, and knew that there would never be another chance. He was through with women, through with humanity, through with love, through with pretending to be something he was not. He could never be like other men; that was an unavoidable conclusion. Still, he could not find it within his heart to feel bitterness towards Christine. She was…perfect. She was the only woman who ever made him feel more like a man than a monster. And she would never love him.

Through the small window on the outer door, he saw the shadowy outlines of simple Flemish-style farmhouses dotting the barren countryside. The storm clouds were now gone, and a waning moon lit the landscape. Time and again, the citizens of France had rebuilt their lives and their homes after utter the ruination of war. For the life of him, he couldn't imagine why they bothered. Hot tears fell unbidden, a seemingly endless supply of them, as the enormity of his personal lost hit him full force once again.

It was all he could do not to fling open the door and throw himself off the train. Perhaps it was the darkly humorous image of peasants finding his broken body beside the tracks, confused and unable to sort out injury from congenital defect, that stayed his hand. No, losing Christine wasn't worth dying for. The sacred memory of her kisses was the price of living. He closed his eyes at last and imagined that he was with her once again enjoying a summer picnic beside the swan lake.

Memories would have to do.

They were all he had.

-0-0-0-

Mme Giry and Christine arrived at the Gare du Nord, the North Station. It was approaching midnight, but the huge edifice was well lit–an oasis of light. But this was nothing unusual. In fact, Paris was already being referred to as _La Ville-Lumière_, The City of Lights, not so much because it was an intellectual center of both art and science, but because there were so many street lamps. The busier the thoroughfare, the more lights there were. And the Gare du Nord was the busiest of the city's six major terminus stations, handling traffic not only to northern France, but also to international destinations such as Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany and England. If Erik were truly heading north, he would, in all likelihood, have left from this station.

During the day, the place would have been the proverbial beehive of activity, but as the hour was late, the castle-like building looked almost empty even though there were many passengers milling about, awaiting the late trains. Most of the ticket windows were closed, but Mme Giry spied one that was occupied. She pointed Christine in that direction. "We should start with this one."

"May I help you?" the young sandy-haired man mumbled, barely looking up from the newspaper he had been reading. Christine could not help but notice that the page that held his attention was the one carrying the latest installment of the Opera Ghost's memoirs.

"I am looking for someone," Christine said, her voice almost timid.

"Sorry, but I'm not a detective, just a ticket seller."

Mme Giry tapped Christine on the arm. "Allow me," she said quietly, then stepped forward. Once again, she became the stern ballet mistress, the bane of all ballet rats, and scowled at the young man. Before he knew what had happened, she grabbed the newspaper from his hands. He gave a yelp of surprise and gaped up at her, the tips of his neatly waxed moustaches trembling slightly. "Good," Madame said in her sternest no-nonsense voice. "Now that we have your attention, perhaps you can help us. As my 'niece' said, we are looking for someone. This person, in fact." She pointed to the story in the newspaper. "We believe he took a northbound train. My 'niece' needs to find him. It is a matter of the utmost urgency."

The ticket seller screwed up his face in bewilderment and asked, puzzled, "You're looking for the Opera Ghost? What would he be doing here? Wouldn't he be…?" He stopped. Enlightenment dawned. _"Mon Dieu!_ He was here! The Phantom of the Opera!"

Christine's face brightened. "You saw Erik?"

"The man did not give me his name, Mademoiselle," he replied, suddenly animated, "but earlier this evening I sold a ticket to a man who kept half his face covered. I assumed he was a veteran of the late war, but now I realize…" A smile beamed across his face. "I saw the Opera Ghost! He…he even talked to me!"

Mme Giry rolled her eyes. "No doubt, he asked the price of a ticket. You may wax rhapsodic some other time. What we need to know is where he went. What train did he take?"

The ticket seller balked, his earlier rapture turning to suspicion. "Why do you want to know? Are you detectives or something?"

"Our reasons are private…and none of your concern," Mme Giry said softly but forcefully, sliding several bank notes across the counter. "Can you help us?"

The ticket seller quickly grabbed up the money. "Yes. Yes, I can. He took the earlier train to Lille with the intention of catching the connecting line to Brussels. He also asked about the best route north, to Denmark I believe. Something about crossing over to Sweden."

Christine looked at Mme Giry. "He's hours ahead of us. Do you really think I'll be able to catch up with him?"

"He will have a somewhat lengthy wait in Lille," the ticket seller offered. "Also, traffic tonight has been greatly impeded by the storms that went through earlier. Some areas appear to have suffered significant damage. We've been getting information over the telegraph about trees downed and blocked tracks. Many of the trains coming are late because of this. In fact, you might even catch up with him at Lille."

Less than an hour later, Christine was ensconced on the night train to Lille, leaving behind the life she'd known.

-0-0-0-

A jolt startled him out of a bad dream. It was a recurring nightmare in which Erik had caught Christine's arm and was dragging her down once more to the dungeon of his black despair, a cold and dismal place of unending darkness. He rubbed his eyes, chagrined that it wasn't a dream, but a memory that he was reliving in his sleep.

The conductor tapped on the door to his compartment. "Sir? Pardon me, sir, but you'll need to disembark now. This train is continuing on to Aachen. Your connection to Brussels will leave from track three."

Erik ran a hand over his face, and cursed himself for not waking up in time to shave. There was always a barber near a train station, if he could find one willing to touch him. He patted his pocket, reassured by the jingle of coins. There was enough for the journey's end, but there'd be little enough to spare. He answered with a gruff, "Thank you," threw his cloak over his arm, adjusted his ever-present mask, and pulled his hat low over his face. He drew a silver flask from his inside pocket, and took a draught of liquid courage, washing his mouth with apricot brandy before heading out. He was as ready as he would ever be to face the day.

The other passengers had already departed, and were milling about the train station awaiting their connections or purchasing refreshments from ever-present vendors. One enterprising baker had set up tables and chairs in the wide mezzanine in front of his café, and was busy serving hot chocolate and croissants to hungry passengers who were looking forward to a leisurely meal on _terra firma_.

Erik held his valise close to his side, aware that pickpockets and thieves would be scouring the crowd for easy pickings, like hawks selecting the most plump pigeons for breakfast. He had no appetite, even though he could not remember the last time he had eaten, but he could not go about in public looking like a vagabond. He looked for the familiar red-and-white candy-striped pole signifying a barber, and, seeing several, he went into the nearest one.

"The mask will not be removed," he stated perfunctorily, "and I do not require a haircut, as there's none of it. A shave is all."

The valise and cloak were set where he could keep an eye on them, and he held the hat in his lap, noting the barber staring curiously at his wig. He handed the man enough money to keep him quiet for the duration, more enough compensate him for the odious task of touching a walking dead man's skin. Perhaps if he had offered Christine money, she would have touched him, too.

He immediately regretted thinking it. _This is why she chose her lover instead of me,_ he thought. _I am vile. I didn't deserve her. I should have been contented with her friendship, and nothing more._

The barber noticed the scowl on Erik's face, and wondered if the hot towel was burning the man's fragile-looking skin. "Does it hurt?" he asked politely.

Erik waved his hand, indicating it was nothing. "You may proceed, barber." He listened to the razor blade scrapping against the leather strop, and as the edge became sharper and sharper with each swipe, images of gaping throats slit wide, warm blood spraying across his forearm and his shoulder clouded his mind. Perhaps another drink would help chase away the ghosts of his past.

Once the shave was over, the barber briskly applied astringent to the sensitive skin on the throat that had been so recently kissed by the razor. As quickly as he could, Erik stepped outside and took a swig from the flask, forcing dark thoughts out of his mind and letting his eyes roam over the sights before him. In the center of the town square was a monument of some kind, and streets led away from it like spokes in a wheel.

He chose the river walk, and strolled down the boulevard as though he hadn't a care in the world, even though his heart was breaking with each step that took him farther from Christine. Last night's storm had ushered in cool air, the first hint of Autumn, and the brisk temperature made him pick up his pace to stay warm. The shadows of the looming buildings on either side of the street kept the sunshine at bay, and made him feel hemmed in. Fortunately, Lille had been built with all the comforts befitting the region's capital and most important river port city, and at the end of the boulevard, he found a public park with trees, benches, and walkways. It was, he noted sadly, very much like the place in Paris that he had enjoyed exploring with Christine. A third sip drained the contents of the silver flask and made him keenly aware of the leaden weight in the center of his being.

He walked over to a balustrade that lined the path and separated it from the edge of the Rive Deûle, and leaned over the edge, watching eddies and whorls spin flotsam from the storm's runoff on the surface of the dark water below. It would be cold this time of year. If a man were to drop into it, and deeply inhale the dirty water into his lungs, he probably wouldn't surface for days.

A nearby clock tower struck the hour, reminding him that he had a train to catch. He had a destination in mind, a place he wanted to see, one that might help explain why he was drawn to Christine. If he could understand more about her, he might unravel the mystery of the power she held over him, and learn how she kept him wrapped around her little finger. The next leg of his trip was at least two hours away, providing there were no further delays, but having nothing better to do, he headed slowly back towards the station.

He ambled towards the square, and the architect in him couldn't help noticing the opportunity that a city like Lille might present to an entrepreneur. Lille was ripe for renovation, just as Paris had been before Haussmann leveled entire districts dating back to medieval times. To Erik's way of thinking, Lille was long overdue for rebuilding. Then again, why bother? It would only be a matter of time until the next invasion, the next pillaging by a conquering army.

Back at the station, he had his flask refilled at the café and ordered a plain roll, which he wrapped in paper and put in his pocket, where it would likely be forgotten. That's when he noticed the young shark stalking his prey, an aristocratic-looking young man who reminded him painfully of Raoul. Tall and blonde, he had a lovely chestnut-haired lady on his arm who gazed at him adoringly. He had to admit they made a handsome couple. Perhaps they were on their honeymoon. Erik's interest piqued as he watched the pickpocket skillfully take the man's wallet and make off, leaving the young man blissfully unaware that he had been robbed. Erik sneered, thinking, "Serves him right for being careless."

The young man went to pay for a flower for his young lady—a perfect red rose offered by a guttersnipe to passersby. Realizing his wallet was gone, he began frantically to search his pockets. His young lady appeared distressed. Even at this distance, Erik could hear the anxiety rising in her voice, though she tried to appear calm. "My dear," she told her young man, "We can wire Father. He will arrange something with a local bank."

The young man's chin touched his chest. He appeared as helpless as he was outraged. "But we haven't anything in the meantime. Nothing for food. Nothing for a place to rest. Nothing!" He shrugged off her hand even as she tried to comfort him, and graciously nodded to the flower girl to put back the rose.

That did it, as far as Erik was concerned. His mind was made up. He might be a vile and miserable excuse for a human being, but no one would put a woman in distress, not while Erik was alive. He sidled over to the alley, knowing he'd find the pickpocket nearby, counting his ill-gotten gains and disposing of the evidence. He walked up behind the thief and said quietly, "Give it back."

The culprit turned out to be a mere slip of a boy, who nearly jumped out of his skin when Erik caught him unawares. He shuddered when he saw Erik standing close behind him—too close for comfort. The man behind him had a lean, hungry look and unsettling eyes that sent a chill up and down his spine, but he instinctively sized Erik up as a fellow dodger. "Why should I?" he said, with false bravado.

"Because I said so," Erik snapped menacingly.

To his surprise, the boy laughed in his face. "Make me," he dared.

"I could. I could kill you right here, and none would be the wiser." He noted with satisfaction that the boy swallowed hard, clearly frightened but desperate not to let it show. "But I could also challenge you. Anyone can pick a pocket and get away with it. But can you put it back without getting caught?"

"You're joking. Why would I do something stupid as that?"

"I'll make it worth your while." He pulled out almost all the cash he had, a tidy sum at least twice as much as the stolen wallet had held.

"What if I just take off right now? An old man like you'd never catch me."

Erik's mismatched eyes flashed angrily. "Don't count on it," he said with a rumbling growl. "Anyway, I don't think you can. You haven't the skill. Never mind. Go on your way."

"Why do you care?" the boy asked. "You know 'im?"

"It isn't that I care: It's that I have a bet with my associate over there," he said, indicating a total stranger, a rough-looking man who was obviously down on his luck, from the look of his worn-out clothes and frayed hat . "I don't think you can do it—or perhaps it is that you lack the nerve to try. Do you dare?"

"Could you?" The boy scoffed, and wiped his dry lips with the back of his hand.

_Good. He's nervous,_ Erik observed. _That means he's tempted. Otherwise, he'd have fled by now._ "Is that a challenge? Think carefully before you answer, for if I can do it, it is you who must pay me."

The boy looked from side to side, indicating a lie was forthcoming. "I haven't anything of value."

"Don't insult me," Erik snarled. "For starters, you can hand over that pig sticker you're carrying, before someone gets hurt."

-0-0-0-


	19. Chapter 19

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 19**

**By HDKingsbury and MadLizzy  
**

_"The beginning of knowledge is the discovery of something we do not understand." _  
~Frank Herbert

As the ticket seller had warned, the train made slow progress with frequent stops. Christine was still on edge, and every bump on the tracks gave her gave a start. Her stomach knotted with worry and frustration but, she reminded herself, worry never accomplished anything. Forcing herself to relax, she stared out the window, ruminating over the conversation she'd had with Mme Giry while waiting to board the train. Though there was still much that remained unknown about her mysterious maestro, Giry's story had helped to fill in some of the blanks. It was apparent that the two of them had a long history together, and one of the things Christine had been surprised to learn was how Erik had helped the ballet mistress in the past.

When she was much younger, Madame explained, she had been an attractive woman, filled with _joie de vivre_. She had been very much aware of her beauty, and her athleticism allowed her to be more than a little decadent in her own way—here she'd winked conspiratorially at Christine—and boasted that many gentlemen had vied for the privilege of her company. Christine did not doubt any of this. One had only to look at Madame to see that she was still a strikingly attractive woman. The older woman went on to explain that this had put her in a position to take her pick of any number of patrons and to indulge herself, if she wished.

It was around this same time that Monsieur Firmin was beginning to amass his fortune and with money at his disposal, he had begun taking an interest in the opera. It was less about philanthropy and more for the chance to ogle the young ladies in the corps de ballet than the music. Even before he had joined Monsieur Andre as joint manager of the opera house, he had begun making himself a patron of the arts—meaning he donated enough money so that he felt entitled to his pick of the female talent backstage. His attention fell upon the young woman who would later take the name Giry, and he had begun to made demands upon her, demands that grew more and more insistent with each refusal. This was before her short-lived marriage, Mme Giry explained, and she told how she went to great lengths to avoid Firman, even going so far as to eschew the receptions that were held after each performance. But the man was persistent, if nothing else. One night, instead of watching the performance, Firmin had let himself into her room and waited for her to return.

"Erik heard my cry for help, my screams," she had said, avoiding Christine's eyes. As she spoke, Giry absent-mindedly fingered a long scar that ran around her neck and disappeared underneath her high collar. "Let us say only that Firmin has some _unnatural_ predilections. If not for Erik, he might have…."

She rapped her cane upon the marble floor, causing Christine to flinch. "And thus began my association with the Phantom. Oh, I recognized him right away. I had seen him years earlier, performing at a carnival, but he was nothing like the young man I remembered. Where once had been a gaunt, adolescent sideshow performer there was now an intelligent, soft spoken—and powerfully built—man. I feared he might kill Firmin for what he had done, but that would have been too simple. Erik, it seemed, had other plans. On the spot, he devised a scheme that would keep Firmin under his thumb for years to come, a lucrative plan that would benefit us both. And it worked out even better once Firman and his friend Monsieur Andre took over management of the opera."

Christine had gasped in horror at the realization that all this had gone on without her ever suspecting it. "Oh, he's no angel, child," Mme Giry reassured her. "But he's no devil, either. He's simply a man who made the best of the circumstances given him."

"Is this when Erik started demanding 20,000 francs a month for his…his salary?" Christine asked.

Madame let out a hearty laugh. "Twenty thousand francs? Dear me, child, do you realize how much money that is? No, Erik only demanded two thousand francs. Firman, weasel that he is, broadcast that higher figure so that he could take advantage of the situation and help himself to some additional funds…and blame it all on the Phantom. So no, I do not feel the least bit of pity that the man is now in prison."

She went to imply that, over the years, she had developed feelings for Erik. "I had hoped that one day, he would realize…" She looked straight at Christine. "But then, you came along. Oh, don't worry, my dear. If anything, I am a realist. I accepted long ago that there would be nothing between Erik and myself but a business alliance, and a very profitable one at that. And it's a good thing he took an interest in you. Thanks to his intervention, Monsieur Firman thought twice about harassing you or any of the other young ladies in the company."

Even now, Christine's mind was muddled, filled with terrible images and concern for the future. She was more than a little frightened by Mme Giry's revelations. What if she did not find Erik? What would she do? And what if she found him, and he sent her away? Finally accepting that all the fretting in the world would not make the train go any faster, she allowed exhaustion to overtake her and she nodded off to sleep. It was the gentle hand of the conductor, shaking her shoulder, that awakened her.

"We're at Lille, Mademoiselle," he announced.

-0-0-0-

The first thing Christine did when she got off the train was to glance about, but was disappointed to find no sign of Erik. "No matter," she said to herself. "I'm sure he's here. He just doesn't want to be seen."

At the ticket counter, she enquired as to when the Brussels train would be departing, and was relieved to learn that no other trains had left for that destination since midnight. Good. That meant that if Erik were truly going to Brussels, he was still here. Somewhere. But he was good at hiding his presence. She almost smiled as she thought, _Once an Opera Ghost, always an Opera Ghost_.

Her ticket purchased, and having more than an hour to wait, she decided that the next order of business was to freshen up. She was about to enquire as to the whereabouts of the ladies' restrooms when the aroma of food beckoned to her. Quickly refreshing herself, she found a vendor selling croissants and other pastry delights. At the same time, her stomach let out a very unladylike growl. Giving an embarrassed smile, she paid the vendor and picked out a cream-filled confection.

It was a crisp morning, with clear azure skies that held no hint of the storms that had passed through the previous night. She prepared to take a dainty bite from the paper-wrapped pastry as she took in her surroundings. The centuries-old facades that lined the city square bore the scars of war, some with Austrian cannonballs half-embedded in the stone fascia, but the passersby took no notice. Unlike Paris, the city of Lille celebrated its citizens from all parts of Northern Europe. Clothing styles reflected the influence of the surrounding countries, and Germanic languages were prominent. Some of the buildings even bore signs of a Prussian heritage. She dabbed rich egg custard from her lips with a corner of a napkin, and ordered a cup of strong Belgian coffee to ward off the morning chill.

No sooner had the coffee been served than Christine saw him from across the square. She nearly knocked over her chair as she rose to her feet. She waved to him, but he paid her no mind. He was watching an elegantly dressed young couple—or rather, he was watching the pickpocket who approached them.

In her years spent traveling with her father, not to mention the ones she'd spent in the opera house, Christine had learned much about thieves and those who prey on the innocence of others. It wasn't that she had been eager to know these things, but instead, a simple matter of necessity. She held her own purse a little closer to her side as she watched the boy bump ever so slightly into the man, knowing that she had witnessed a crime. It was then she realized that Erik had seen it, too. She watched him stare intently at the couple, his expression inscrutable and half-hidden by his mask and broad-brimmed fedora. Then he turned, his cape flowing on currents of air around him, and she watched aghast as he followed the boy into the alley leading away from the square.

Mme Giry's confession rang in her ears. "He's no angel…."

Hurt and confused, Christine couldn't help wondering if Erik had reverted to his old ways and was already instigating a crime ring to support himself. She took a sip of steaming coffee to brace herself, and headed off in the direction she'd last seen Erik.

Quietly, using the utmost discretion, she edged her way into the alley, keeping to the shadows, instantly grateful that her travelling clothes and hat were lighter and less bulky than she'd otherwise have worn. A slim silhouette was less noticeable. She used whatever concealment was available to her to avoid being discovered, hiding behind barrels and bins. No longer did she fear him, not after spending the summer at his side whenever possible. Thoughts of the swan lake and the passionate kisses they had shared under the acacia trees brought a flush of warmth to her breast and pulled at her tenderly. But she needed to know exactly what was taking place here. If Erik were up to no good, she must see it for herself, and then she would give him a piece of her mind.

Though she could not make out the words being spoken, the tone of his voice as he spoke to the boy bore disappointment. This was a surprise—Erik appeared to be negotiating the return of the wallet to its rightful owner. Christine shuddered, recalling the ways he had once used his voice to convince her to follow his commands at the opera house, but at the same time, she knew that he had never asked her to do anything that was not in her own best interest. Then what was it he wanted wanted from the boy?

She crept as close as she could without being detected, kneeling behind the corner of the nearest building to eavesdrop. Her jaw dropped as Erik made his Devil's Bargain with the lad. _Return the wallet,_ she heard him say, _and if you cannot, then watch and learn from a master._

Her father had warned her about men like this. It must be a scam, a set up of some sort, designed to garner a reward at the very least while coming off smelling like a rose. _Erik_, she nearly whispered, _what are you up to? _Her heart beat wildly._ What if _he_ is mistaken for the thief, and taken to prison?_

-0-0-0-

Erik had no way of knowing whether the boy would stick around, but regardless, he had the wallet (and its contents) and was going to prove a point. A small group of people had gathered around the penniless young couple, offering commiserations while a policeman offered them meaningless reassurances that their money would be found. Walking straight up to the frantic pair, he asked innocently, "Are you looking for something? I may be of service."

The aristocratic young man peered down his nose at Erik guardedly. There was enough of a physical resemblance to Raoul that it made Erik want to humiliate him, to watch him squirm. He was about to walk away and keep the wallet, when the young woman spoke up.

"We've lost our wallet," she said quietly. She lowered her eyes shyly.

Erik, amused by her suggestion that "they" had lost "their" wallet, barely suppressed a smile. "_We_ have?" But he hadn't the heart to prolong the situation, nor have contact with this pair any longer than necessary. He showed them the wallet and gestured to the gutter. "This was…over there. Perhaps you dropped it."

"The devil you say!" the erstwhile victim exclaimed. "It was stolen!"

Erik tsked at the young man's tone and shrugged his shoulders indifferently. "Well, here you have it. I advise you to check the contents. If nothing is missing, then…well, keep it inside your vest from now on." Seeing the quizzical look on the faces of the crowd, now fixated on him, he continued. "Harder for it to be…misplaced that way."

He tipped his hat and walked away as though he had better places to be, while the red-faced officer loudly proclaimed Erik a model citizen for returning the wallet intact.

From her hiding spot in the shadows, Christine shook her head in disbelief and confusion. She wasn't sure what she had witnessed, and until she knew more, she would not reveal herself to Erik. _Watch and learn,_ he had advised the boy, and that was exactly what she planned to do. His antics bemused her, and she continued watching as he wandered around the square before heading back towards the alley. Scrambling for concealment, she covered herself with the corner of tarp that had been thrown over a woodpile, and held her breath as Erik walked past her unawares.

-0-0-0-

Taking a circuitous route back to the spot where he'd left the pickpocket, Erik expected the boy to be long gone. He was surprised to find him waiting where Erik had last seen him—and none too happy, either.

"That was cheating! You were supposed to slip it back into his pocket, without him knowin'!"

"On the contrary. The rules of the game were to return it without being caught as a thief." The brandy was wearing off, meaning that his better judgment was returning; also, he was beginning to feel hunger pangs, and his head ached miserably. "Let him think whatever he wishes," he said impatiently. "It's easier that way. People often believe what they want to believe, drawing the simplest conclusion rather than investigating all the possibilities." He had an uneasy suspicion that he had missed something, and an eerie feeling that he was being watched came over him, but he shook it off. The lack of sustenance, the hours of useless weeping, and several ounces of good brandy were taking their toll. "Anyway, it isn't my fault if he's too stupid to see the truth of the matter." Erik held out his hand for his payment.

The boy gripped the knife, reluctant to let it go. "It ain't no pig sticker. It's a genuine multiplex knife, the kind what the sailors carry." With a wistful comment, he handed it over. "It's my most prized possession, but a deal's a deal," he said, holding his head high.

"Honor among thieves," Erik said sarcastically as he put the knife in his pocket. Then he noticed how pale the boy was, and yet, he'd made an effort to keep himself clean. The lad was hardly old enough to be on his own, fourteen or fifteen years old at the most. "What's your name? How long have you been on the street?" Erik asked softly. "Don't you have a place to go?"

"Me name's Jabes, not that it's any of your business," the lad replied curtly, trying to act tough.

Erik saw through the bravado, however. "You haven't eaten in days," he observed. "Here; take this," he said, handing him what little money he had been saving for his own meals. "Eat, and then go find an honest job."

Jabes stared at the money in his hand. "There ain't no work here."

"Nonsense. There's construction. The entire country has been rebuilding since the War. Have you no skills?"

"I'm telling you, there's nothing! And the farther North you go, the worse it is." The boy blinked rapidly, trying to stave off tears. "My mother died last week. She was buried in a _pauper's_ grave along with all the others whose people couldn't pay for a proper funeral."

Erik looked away. He knew the pain and stigma attached to poverty all too well, and he'd seen enough mass graves to know what it must feel like to watch one's mother interred in such an unfeeling way. "I've got a long wait before my train leaves," he heard himself saying. "I can show you some amusements that you could use to earn a living."

Jabes took a step or two backwards, distancing himself from Erik. "Jus' what d' you have in mind?"

"Impertinent whelp!" Erik roared as the inference set in. "I mean you no harm!" He threw his hands up. "I don't know why I am wasting my time with you!"

"No need to be snippy. You wouldn't be the first gentleman to try to—Jus' because I'm poor doesn't mean I'm—"

"Silence! Not another word out of you." The very idea was infuriating! Erik made himself relax, let his damaged voice rest as much as possible, before explaining. "I mean to teach you some sleight-of-hand. Clearly, you have some dexterity. Watch, and learn. This is how I earned a living when I was your age."

He held out a hand and stood Jabes's multiplex knife on end in the center of his up-turned right palm, pointing the fingers of his free hand at the tool. To the boy's astonishment, the knife seemed to levitate. After mumbling some meaningless words, Erik waggled the fingers of his left hand at the knife, and it began to rotate several inches in the air.

"How did you do that?" Jabes asked in unabashed astonishment.

At Erik's command, the knife lay down on its side like an obedient dog. "Aren't very bright, are you," he said good-naturedly. "Look, I can't teach you everything in a few hours, but a few simple tricks should get you started." He made the knife stand at attention, and grinned when Jabes leaned in to have a closer look at it. "Remember this: Never give away your talent. There should always be a payment. There are those who would use you until you have nothing left to give. Especially women."

Jabes looked at him with dark, untrusting eyes. "What are you getting out of this?"

Erik laughed bitterly, the hollow sound of it making the boy's skin crawl. "I could say I am earning my Redemption." He stifled a yawn. "But the fact is, I'm bored. I am sparing myself two hours of _ennui_—while keeping you out of jail."

And with a flash of light and a puff of smoke, the multiplex knife vanished.

-0-0-0-

Christine was confused. She had just witnessed an incident that could be interpreted in one of two ways. It might be Erik had been truly helping the couple by recovering the filched wallet from the pickpocket...or, he was recruiting the young thief for other and more nefarious activities.

As quietly as she crept up to watch Erik, she slid back away. Taking a deep breath, she forced her hands to stop shaking—whether with fear or anger, she wasn't sure. She considered her options at this point. When she'd first seen Erik in the station, the only thing she could think of was calling out to him and announcing her presence. But now?

Now, she'd seen something…odd, and she suspected that announcing her presence wasn't such a good idea. Not yet. Not until she had a better grasp of things. And then a thought struck her. Maybe, just maybe, Providence had just handed her an opportunity.

She found a seat in an out of the way location, so she could sit and silently consider what to do next. It dawned upon her that she really knew very little about Erik. While her life was pretty much an open book, his was shrouded in mystery and half-truths. She started making a mental list of what she did, and what she did not, know about Erik, measuring what she saw as his good qualities against his not-so-good ones.

First, there was his name. Erik Delacorte. Maybe Erik really was his first name, but Delacorte? In all the time she'd known Erik, he had never divulged his last name, and prior to the trial, she had gotten the impression that he made the name up out of whole cloth. That didn't bode well for starters. What about his past?

His past, or what she knew of it, could best be described as 'checkered.' She highly doubted that there was much truth in his Memoirs of an Opera Ghost. He practically admitted this to her. And Mme Giry had also admitted that the two of them had engaged in extortion and blackmail. But hadn't Firman deserved that? Very well; she'd stick with checkered.

He had admitted that in the past, he'd performed in circuses and sideshows. Weren't those people usually considered unsavory characters? And he had a violent temper and could be dangerous if crossed. She'd been the recipient of that, hadn't she?

On the other hand, he was protective of those he cared for. He had saved Mme Giry. He may have rescued that young couple, and he had protected her from the unwanted attentions of several unsavory characters at the opera house—some she had known about, and some she hadn't.

Like her, he shared a love of music, and at least prior to his injuries, had the voice of an angel. Most important of all, he was the only man who had ever set her heart a-flutter. Even Raoul, handsome and heroic as he had been, had never made her feel the way she felt with Erik.

Evaluating her imaginary list, Christine believed Erik's positive attributes outweighed the negative ones, but she needed to be sure. "Watch and learn," Erik had said. Well, that was exactly what she was going to do.

She allowed herself a huge sigh. "He's a natural teacher," she said to herself. "He has much to offer. He seems more than capable of carrying himself in public. Why had he remained hidden for so many years underneath the opera house? Is there more to this man—and his past—than I yet know?"

And another thought niggled at the back of her mind. "If I should align myself with him…live with him, wed him…what kind of life would we lead? Would his past haunt us until we are dead?" She ground the heels of her hands into her temples, forcing herself to think of what she should do. The notion of returning to Paris on the very first train out of Lille was suddenly quite appealing.

She got up and hoped to walk off some of her nervousness. She found herself back to where she'd been hiding when she watched Erik and the young boy. Near the woodpile, a laundry line had been erected, and clothing of all types hung drying in the breeze. A boy's shirt and trousers swayed on the line, and an idea occurred to her. She knocked on the back door nearest the line, and straightened her dress as she waited the answer.

A harried housewife appeared, surprise etching her raised brow. "Is there a problem?" the woman asked suspiciously.

"Madame, my…younger brother has suffered an…a childish accident." She pointed towards the deep puddles left by the rain. "He is covered in mud. Can you tell me where I might buy some clean clothes for him? We only need enough to get us onboard the train to Brussels."

-0-0-0-


	20. Chapter 20

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 20**

**By HDKingsbury and MadLizzy  
**

_"All the world's a stage,  
And all the men and women, merely players."  
_~William Shakespeare, _As You Like It_

Christine regarded her reflection in the mirror with a mixture of admiration and disdain. Gone were the luxuriant strawberry-blonde locks, now carefully tucked under the bowler hat that sat cocked jauntily to one side of her head, a few strategically placed hairpins keeping her hair from falling out of place. She had briefly considered cutting her hair, but then thought better of the idea. Satisfied with her hair, she inspected the rest of her costume.

Long pin-stripped pants of cheap, roughly-woven fabric draped over the laces of her wing-tipped shoes, while black suspenders kept them from sliding past her hips and down around her knees. A tan coat hung loose about her waist and hips, and she couldn't help pulling a handful of it behind her to show off her comely figure, but her shape was hidden beneath bindings holding down her bosom and loose clothing that concealed her womanly curves. Letting the jacket loose with a heavy sigh, she snipped away a lock of hair that had escaped only to dangle down the middle of her forehead, and cut the offending lock into tiny pieces with the embroidery scissors that Madame had thoughtfully tucked into her carpetbag, on the off chance that she might need to mend a tear.

A dab of foundation across her upper lip would hold the hairs in place and give the illusion of the first hint of peach fuzz on a young man's youthful face. Using a burnt match, she carefully drew a shadow down the middle of her chin, creating the suggestion of a slight but very masculine cleft. Under close examination, she knew she would never pass for a grown man, but the casual passersby would take her for an adolescent male, especially if she added the necessary speech and the walked with an awkward, boyish gait. Her toiletries had not been packed with disguises in mind, and she thought of the myriad appliances, creams, putties, pencils and colors and how her training from the cosmetic artists at the opera had helped transform her from a woman to a boy. Still, it was Erik who taught her that deception was as much about acting as appearance.

She practiced taking a few steps in the narrow confines of the train's washroom, squaring her shoulders and adding a swagger to her walk. Where there had once been a diva, now a rakish ne'er-do-well stood giggling at the image that stared back at her. All those pants roles at the opera house were paying off in a way she could have never anticipated. The freedom from bustles and layers of petticoats and the other clothing women were expected to wear made her feel light as a feather, and without a heeled walking boot, she could walk faster and farther than ever before. There would also be the added benefit of being able to move about in society in ways that a lone woman never could, without having to worry about a male escort.

A smile crept over her face. If this ruse allowed her to keep an eye on Erik, so much the better. But then she frowned as a darker thought crossed her mind, not for the first time. "What will Erik think if he catches me like this?" But she didn't fret for long, and soon a small laugh escaped from her throat. "I'll tell him that he has no one to blame but himself, that he's the one who taught me to act and to apply disguises."

A sharp knock on the door brought her out of her reverie. "Don't be all day, mate," shouted an angry male on the other side. "There's a line out here."

Choking back a snicker, she quickly packed up her belongings, shoving the hem of the wedding dress into the vast recesses of her cavernous carpetbag. To say she'd been surprised when she found it among the other articles of clothing that Mme Giry had packed for her was an understatement, and she'd blushed as the mixed emotions of that night swept over her once again. She quickly pushed back such thoughts, and concentrated on the gown itself. It was heavy and cumbersome, with its bustle and layers of lace. She definitely needed to lighten the load before changing trains. Perhaps the porter would allow her to check the bag along with the other passenger luggage. She could put all of the essentials into the pockets of her jacket and her pants, if necessary—the same as any other man.

The knocking on the door became more urgent. "Hold yer horses," she called out, keeping the timbre of her voice lower. "Can't a fellow relieve 'imself in peace?" It was all she could do not to laugh at her own boldness.

This new adventure was going to be ever so much fun, of that she was sure. If Erik hadn't run off the way he did, who knows if she would ever have had this chance to try her wings, to experience this newfound freedom. There was a positive side to every crisis, after all. That was what her father had always told her, that everything happens for a reason—good, bad, or indifferent. His words rang clear in her mind: "When I am in Heaven, child, I shall send you the Angel of Music." Well, I hope that Angel is watching me now. How he might laugh to see me masquerading as a boy!

Tucking that last of her belongings into her bag, she stole one last glance in the mirror before opening the door. To the grumbling men standing in the narrow passageway, she touched the brim of her bowler hat and said gruffly, "It's all yours." None of them batted an eye. It was exactly as Erik had always told her: People see what they expect to see.

One thing was certain; he was not expecting to see her. She smiled to herself as she imagined a joyful reunion, but the smile faded as she wondered, What if he proves false? The incident with the young boy at Lille still troubled her. What if he turned out to be every bit the scoundrel she had once imagined?

Making her way to the passenger train, she climbed aboard. Jostling past the other travelers, she held onto the seat back to maintain her balance, looking for the most comfortable of those still vacant. This was going be a long ride, with only a quick stop in Brussels before continuing to Hamburg. And after that—who knew what might happen? Spotting one that still had most of its upholstery in place, she plopped down in a very unladylike fashion.

She waved a hand at the grizzled-faced conductor, who cocked an eyebrow at her. "Pardon me, sir," she said in her deepest voice, "I'm looking for a friend of mine. Wears a mask on one side of his face…from the war, y'know…."

"I hain't seen you afore," the conductor snapped. "Show me yer ticket."

Christine handed him the stub. "I believe my friend is in a private compartment," she persisted.

"Aye, that he is," the old man replied. "Wants his privacy."

She brightened up. "Good!" Her voice cracked. "I mean, good," she said, an octave lower. "Then he did make it onboard. I lost track of him in Lille. Thought he might have missed the train."

"You a detective or something?" the conductor scowled. "You got any more questions?"

"Name's Daaé, Christian Daaé," she said, touching her finger to the bowler hat that concealed her long locks. "Do you know if he's disembarking in Brussels?"

Again, the raised eyebrow, the closer inspection. "If he's sich a good friend of yers, why ain't ya asked him yerself?"

"I will," she answered, chagrined. As the old man turned his back to her, she stuck out her tongue. A little boy, maybe six years old, was sitting with his mother a couple seats away and grinned at her when she did that. She smiled and winked back, holding a finger to lips, cautioning him to silence. The boy nodded and grinned back.

"Who are you nodding at?" his mother asked.

"No one, Mama."

"Haven't I told you before about talking to strangers?" And that was the end of that.

Christine relaxed and settled back in her seat for the long ride ahead, proud of what she'd accomplished. Already, she had passed two tests. So far, no one seemed to realize that she was the former toast of Paris, the New Marguerite as she'd been hailed in the papers. As far as the passengers and crew were concerned, she was just another face in the crowd. She should have been happy, but instead felt a pang in her heart when she thought of Erik alone, having no idea that she was so close by, but she had resolved to learn more about him while she had the chance.

_It may seem cruel,_ she thought, _but it is for the best. It would be far worse if I flew to him and pledged my undying friendship, only to leave him again if it doesn't work out between us.  
_  
But the truth was that she would not allow herself to believe that things would not work out for the best. She had one of those personalities that, no matter how bad things were at present, no matter how upset she was, she was able to quickly bounce back and move forward. No, she would not focus on what might go wrong, but on what would go right. This was going to be an adventure, the likes of which she hadn't enjoyed since she and her father had traveled the length and breadth of Sweden and later, the Breton coast. She was Ganymede, née Rosalind, and she was determined to enjoy every moment of it.

0-0-0

Back in his compartment, Erik took off the great coat he'd exchanged for his cloak during the stopover in Lille and hung it from a hook. Whatever had possessed him to wear it, anyway? Opera cloaks were for evenings and formal occasions, not to be worn when sneaking out of town under the noses of the authorities. What had he been thinking? Had he been trying to draw attention to himself, because that's sure what he had been doing. He might as well have worn a sign proclaiming himself to be the erstwhile Phantom of the Paris Opera. More than once, he'd heard the mutterings behind his back. Look! It's him—the Phantom! It must be. See how he covers his face and wears a cloak? The great coat allowed him to blend in better, and had only cost a few coins at the used garment shop.

A knock on the door signaled the arrival of the porter, bringing Erik the food he had ordered. After giving nearly all the money he'd brought with him for food to the boy, Jabes, Erik had tipped the porter to bring a simple, inexpensive meal of tea, broth, and bread directly to his compartment. From here on out, he would need to be frugal with his transportation arrangements, since he had only enough currency for the basic necessities. Walking might do him good, he thought wryly. After all, hadn't Christine told him once that she'd walked all the way to France with her father? Besides, the brisk autumn air would be invigorating, and help dispel the numbness that had settled over him like a mantle.

After accepting the covered tray, he set it down and locked the door behind him before taking off the mask. Privacy allowed him some comforts that he would not otherwise have been able to enjoy. The compartment even had its own washroom, so he wouldn't need to leave it until he changed trains in Brussels. That suited him well. The less contact he had with people, the better.

Emotionally exhausted, he sat down carelessly, jostling the teapot and spilling some of the warm liquid onto the tray, his grumbling stomach reminding him that this would be the first meal he had eaten in two days. The fragrant aroma of the broth wafted through the air as he lifted the lid that covered it and kept it warm. He stared vacuously at the red rosebud in a small vase that decorated the tray, and blocked the memories of Christine from his mind.

In Lille, he had been plagued with the overwhelming sensation that he was being watched, but such an idea was ridiculous. Who would be watching and following him? It would not have been Bruguière, and even though the attorney expressed dismay at Erik's decision to break his parole, he'd left his client with the understanding that he would do and say nothing to stop it, either. So, if it wasn't the authorities, then who could it have been? Christine? That was as silly a thought as Bruguière following him! In the end, Erik shrugged it off as his own paranoia. In his current state of mind, he realized, he could not even trust his instincts, for they were the same instincts that had led him to believe that Christine was interested in more than friendship, and look where that got him. Besides, he should be used to it by now. People were always staring at him out of curiosity if not alarm. It hardly meant that he was endangered.

He fondled the Punjab lasso in his pocket, knowing that he could defend himself if he must but, really, why bother? He was no longer concerned about living or dying. He would satisfy his curiosity about Christine's birthplace, and then…well…best not to dwell on it.

Shoving such morbid thoughts into the background, he raised the bouillon bowl to his lips and drank down the clear broth in an even draught. The liquid made him feel warm inside for the first time since…only yesterday, when he saw Christine with her future husband. He poured himself a cup of tea and drained it before putting his ear to the door, listening carefully for any signs of life in the corridor. Satisfied that no one was there, he opened the door and set the tray and dishes carefully on the floor. On second thought, he plucked the rosebud from the vase, grazed its soft petals against his cheek, and closed the door behind him.

A sharp bend in the tracks caught him off guard, tossing him like a limp rag into the seat cushions, as though he hadn't a bone in his body. He cursed his clumsiness, swore at his inattention, and knew that he had been off-guard thanks to the relentless emptiness in the center of his being—the void that thoughts of Christine had once filled. He cajoled himself, determined to pull himself out of the doldrums, keenly aware that high emotions had left him overwrought and careless.

Stop it, you old fool. You're worse than a lovesick pup. The better man won; it's best if you think of losing her that way. Christine will have everything a young woman could want, everything she's ever dreamed of, everything a lout such as yourself could never have given her. You should be happy for her.

But no matter how hard he tried, he could not bring himself to be happy. The hollow in his soul ached for want of her. It was a need that defied reason. All he knew was that he had lost her, and with her, everything in the world that really mattered. He banged his head against the high seat back, jarring loose the ever-present mask. It bounced onto his lap and fell to the floor, the vacant eye staring up at him.

He regarded the scowling brow with disdain, and tried to remember the happy times: Christine's musical laughter, the light tread of her footstep on the path leading to his home, her fragrance as it wafted on the breeze. He dared not recall her kisses, the soft brush of her lips upon his miserable forehead, the bow of her pursed mouth pressed against his. He pounded a fist against his forehead, the knuckles skimming across the tangled mass of flesh that stood out prominently on the right side. With his fingertips, he traced the knot of scars, allowing his nails to scrape against the sensitive flesh until he felt the telltale heat of broken skin. Pulling out his silk handkerchief, he staunched the flow of blood oozing down his marred cheek. He shook his head ruefully. "How could you have ever expected her to...love you?"

Enough of this nonsense! Mooning and pining never won a woman's heart. He had known all along that what a girl like Christine wanted was adventure, and so he had given it to her. He had deliberately been mysterious, divine, and heroic, using every trick he knew by turns until at last he had grown desperate to win her. He had risked everything for her…and lost. What was done, was done. The damage could never be repaired.

Reaching into his pocket, he took out a pencil and a small notebook, and began to write. His intention was to plan out a course of action for the next few days, but it did not take long before he had forgotten his list and was, instead, writing fragments of a new composition, together with lyric poetry:

_Poor, sad Erik dreamt of everything and nothing  
He thought of rolling seas and green meadows  
Sparrows and nightingales  
But what he liked most of all, he thought, was  
The sight of Christine in the sunlight._

_  
_  
Bitterness swept over him in a cold wave.

_Ha!_ Don Juan Triumphant_! Might as well have written_ Don Quixote_! My hope—my quest—my impossible dream! Christine…. Lost, lost, all lost._

Lulled by the rocking of the train as it sped along the tracks, he closed his eyes tight while clutching the rosebud to his chest. A fitful nap was his reward, one filled with dreams of Christine and the life he had planned for the two of them—and the love that would never be. Had he known she was only a few cars away and disguised as Christian Daaé, he might have prevented the calamity that befell them both the next day.

-0-0-0-


	21. Chapter 21

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 21**

**By MadLizzy and HDKingsbury**

_"Next to the Word of God, the noble art of music is the greatest treasure in the world. My heart, which is so full to overflowing, has often been solaced and refreshed by music when sick and weary."_

~Martin Luther

0-0-0

Christine made herself as comfortable as possible in the worn but clean passenger car seat. There was still the prospect of several more hours of travel, and having engaged in a little detecting of her own, Christine had discovered which compartment Erik had secreted himself away in. He was much closer than she'd thought—in the car directly behind hers, in fact. That made her task easier.

She looked around at the assortment of humanity traveling with her. Hers was a general passenger car with rows of seats on either side of the aisle, seats that cost the fewest coins. The people were, for the most part, working class folk. There were mothers with young children, tradesmen, and traveling businessmen. The car Erik was traveling in, however, cost more but had private compartments on either side. Once she'd determined his location, she had staked out a seat that would allow her to discreetly keep an eye on all passengers entering and exiting that car.

At one of the earlier fuel and water stops, she actually caught a glimpse of him as he briefly walked the corridor and stretched his legs. This had both surprised and relieved her, as she had seen neither hide nor hair of him in the previous hours and was had begun to wonder if Erik were ill. But no, there he was, looking no worse for the wear.

She made sure to stay out of the way, waiting to see if he would get off the train. If so, then she would, too. This was Erik, after all. Who knew if he were really going all the way to Hamburg, or if he had changed his mind? But he only walked up and down the corridor a couple of times, rolling his shoulders no doubt to ease out the kinks that came with sitting for a long time. Once she was certain that he was back in his private compartment, she relaxed, and situated herself in such a way that she could keep her eyes on that car. Easier to keep track of her wandering Phantom this way.

_"Guten Tag."_

Christine blinked, realizing she had been wool gathering. She looked up to see who was talking to her, surprised to see a young lass smiling down at her.

"Uhm…_Guten Tag, Fräulein_," she replied, keeping her voice deep, hoping she got the words right and feeling her cheeks flush with embarrassment at the thought that the young girl might be trying to flirt with her.

"Are you traveling alone, _junger_ _Herr_?" the girl asked, batting her lashes coyly.

"No…er, _nein_. I am…waiting for a friend." Christine indicated the vacant seat beside her, suggesting that somebody else had been sitting there and would be returning soon.

"Oh." The girl looked disappointed.

Before anything further could transpire, however, the girl's mother came up and took charge. "Come along, Gretel," the woman snapped, dragging her flirtatious daughter off, chastising her for talking to strange men.

"But…I was just trying to be friendly," Christine hear the tiny voice whimper as the mother and daughter disappeared into the crowd of passengers. She exhaled a sigh of relief that a potential catastrophe was averted, and felt something lumpy beneath her. She stood up and found she'd been sitting on two books. Picking them up, she sat back down and looked to see what she'd found. One was a tour guide of the northern German states; the other was a book of common phrases. Both volumes were written in French, German and English. A quick look around the car revealed no one looking for the missing books. No takers? Oh well, finder's keepers. These would give her something to read during the trip as well as help her with any language problems that might come up.

Her knowledge of German was rusty, these days limited primarily to a few phrases she had picked up as a child. Her operatic studies were of little help, as there was currently an unwritten rule that no German operas were to be performed in Paris. The country was still smarting from the humiliation of the Franco-Prussian War—or the 1870 War as the French preferred to call it—when Prussian forces had occupied Paris and France had lost nearly all the territory of Alsace-Lorraine. Even the "safe" German operas—the old standards by Mozart and Gluck—were sung in French. As for that fellow Richard Wagner and his Ring cycle? Forget about him and them. Far too German for French blood these days!

So she settled back into her seat, lulled by the clickity-clack as the train rushed along the tracks. Above the chatter of the other passengers, she could hear the conductor announcing that the next stop would be Osnabrück. She turned her attention to the tour guide. If she couldn't get out and actually visit the city, at least she could read about it.

_Osnabrück…city in Lower Saxony, about 100 km west of Hanover, she read. It lies in a valley bordered by the Wiehengebirge on one side and the northern tip of the Teutoburger Wald on the other…_

"Too bad we won't have time to stop and look around," she muttered, imagining herself walking through the Teutoburg Forest. "Sounds lovely." She read some more.

_…the town hall of Osnabrück houses the Friedenssaal, where the Peace of Westphalia was signed in 1648, ending the Thirty Years War…the Heger Tor, built as a memorial to the soldiers who died at Waterloo in 1815…_

"Before my time, both of these," she chuckled to herself.

_…the Bucksturm, once a prison for women accused of witchcraft…_

"Don't think I would like to see that!"

And so she continued reading as the train sped on towards Bremen.

-0-0-0-

"Conductor. What is taking so long? Why haven't we started on our way again? Is there a problem?" The unexpected delay had heightened Erik's wariness. An ordinary refueling stop had lengthened interminably, and as the minutes ticked by, Erik began to wonder if the authorities back in Paris had wired ahead and alerted the various trains of his fleeing the country. He scoffed at his fears. As if the Germans would care about somebody escaping the French criminal justice system!

The conductor, a squat, roundish man with thick spectacles, shrugged his shoulders. Erik noted that upon crossing the border, the French crew had been replaced with a German one, yet the man responded in fluent French. "No problem, _Mein Herr_," the man told him, sneering at the impatient Frenchman and unable to resist adding a touch of German to reply. It was apparent that anti-French sentiment was as strong in Germany as anti-German sentiment was in France. "Supplies. Nothing more. The train requires water and other provisions. You may stay onboard if you wish."

Erik visibly stiffened at the inconvenience. Long hours in his cramped compartment, relieved only by brief sorties into the corridor to stretch his legs, had done nothing to improve his mood. "We weren't supposed to stop this long. How long will we be delayed?"

"Not long. Perhaps an hour, maybe less."

"An hour? That's outrageous." His suspicions were aroused, and he was determined to get to the truth. "There's something you're keeping to yourself." He lowered his voice, making it as soft as possible, and began to sing the siren's song. In spite of the injuries he had suffered at the hands of the mob seven months ago, he was still able to make his voice commanding, even irresistible when necessary, and could use his unnatural gifts to create complex illusions that were utterly mesmerizing. "Tell me the rest."

The gruff German blinked as if falling under a spell, and rubbed his ears and a spot between his eyes as though they tingled, but he obeyed the Voice in spite of his better judgment. "There is a repair that must be completed before we continue on our way," he admitted. "The boiler has sprung a leak. It must be fixed before we resume our trip, else a disaster beyond your imagination will occur."

"That will take at least two hours," Erik growled. "More likely, three!"

The spell broke and the conductor bristled, irritated at being talked down to, and removed his spectacles with meticulous care. He slowly cleaned them with a pristine handkerchief, making a point of polishing them to perfection. "Bremen is a beautiful city, _Herr Verärgert Mann_. Consider taking a walk. It will cool you off. Refresh you. See the cathedral, why don't you." Under his breath, the conductor muttered something in Bavarian that sounded like, "Or find the Beck _Biergarten_. It might help your disposition."

Erik switched easily from speaking French to perfect, unaccented High German. "Thank you, _Herr Eisenbahnleiter_," he said, calling the conductor by his job title, letting the other man know he understood he had been addressed as _Herr _Angry Man. "I am sure I will find a way to amuse myself for a few hours." He glared at the man as if to say, "No thanks to you," before closing the door in his face.

The conductor had been right about one thing; Erik, with his long limbs and lanky frame, could not abide being holed up in the train compartment much longer. His head grazed the ceiling when he tried to stand up straight, and he could touch opposite walls without stretching his arms. He felt like a sardine packed in a can! He grabbed his greatcoat and stumbled off the train through the outer door of his compartment, infuriated with the conductor. How dare the man talk to him that way? Didn't he know who he was dealing with? Suddenly, Erik laughed at himself. _Of course he doesn't know, you ninny! Or did you want to announce your presence for all the world to know? _

Erik wandered the streets of Bremen, seeking an outlet for his pent up energy. He stretched his muscles as he walked, rubbing his left upper arm where the long scar still ached, especially when the weather changed. Taking long strides, he covered ground quickly, never noticing the young man who had slipped off the train and was following him at a discreet distance. If he hadn't been so busy arguing with himself, he might have found humor in watching the boy struggle to match Erik's pace.

His anger dissipated as the exercise and the brisk autumn air invigorated him, and Erik began to take in his surroundings. The city was impeccably clean, evidence of good German civic-minded pride. Narrow streets wended between towering houses built of brick. Many dated back to the Middle Ages, with Gothic architecture the dominant style. Wood trim was invariably painted in bold, cheerful colors, in stark contrast to Erik's black mood. He turned towards the bustling market square, drawn by the aroma of fresh food and strong black coffee.

Wursts, schnitzels, and dark, heavy breads of every kind and description were being hawked by aggressive vendors, each vying for the attention of the tourists who, like Erik, had come from the train station seeking a diversion and a good meal. Bushel baskets of apples and pears overflowed with the first Fall harvest, tempting buyers with their tart, crisp fragrance, and piles of pumpkins, potatoes, onions, turnips, and beets hinted of hearty winter stews soon to come. His fellow passengers scattered like ants among the various stalls and carts, but Erik had no use for them. There was only one thing that could calm his restless spirit: Music, sweet Music. She beckoned to him like a guardian angel.

He could no longer sing – the lynching had effectively put an end to that—but the allure of music was still compelling. Had he an instrument, he would have sat right there in the market square beneath the giant statue of Roland and played his heart out. As it was, he ambled towards the only place he knew he would find an instrument he could play: A church.

Passing the town hall with its ornate gingerbread style façade, he considered going into the cathedral with its soaring central bell tower, but as luck would have it, many of his fellow travelers had already headed straight to it. It was packed with people gawking at the magnificent stained glass windows, the elaborate high altar, and the marvelous medieval architecture. On he walked, until finally he stumbled upon a humble church tucked at the end of a blind alley, in the shadow of the great cathedral. Far off the beaten path, the little church seemed all but forgotten. He reached out a gloved hand and tested the door. Unlocked. He opened it slightly, barely enough to peer inside and check for signs of occupancy, and entered, silent as a ghost.

-0-0-0-

Christine was close behind. She had followed him from the train station, trailing him across the market square. She'd been disappointed when he veered away from the cathedral – it would have been easy to remain hidden among all the people gathered there – but still she followed, knowing she had no choice but to dog his every step. It would be just like him to leave the train and go off on a tangent, and she might never see him again. When she saw Erik enter the church, she wondered what he was up to. Her curiosity piqued, she sneaked in behind him and hid behind the nearest pew.

Taller buildings on all sides blocked sunlight from entering the few plain, leaded glass windows that ran the length of the walls, enveloping the sanctuary in shadow. Nestled behind the pew in the dim light, Christine tilted her head to the side and raised it barely enough to see over the back of the bench. Her jaw dropped as Erik walked straight up to the altar. He stood before it, his back straight, his chin high, every inch of him proud and defiant. He rested his hands on the altar, and her heart pounded in her chest as he touched the heavy cloth that covered the sterling chalice, and when he removed the silver paten atop it, she nearly gasped out loud.

"Empty," he whispered. She heard it clear as day, and her lungs constricted as he casually explored the blessed accoutrements of holy sacrament. For a moment, she wondered if he planned to steal the set, but to her surprise, he carefully replaced each item. He was simply satisfying his curiosity. No one would ever know that he had been there. She ducked low when he turned to his right, towards the carved wooden screen that concealed a small organ opposite the choir stall.

Through the screen, Christine could make out Erik's shape as he removed his coat and tossed it over the mirror atop the keyboard. He frowned at the reflecting glass--which would have allowed the organist to see behind him and keep watch on the altar and the choir--as if its very existence were an affront to his dignity. He seated himself carefully, and fingered the keys reverently, fondly, like an old lover who'd been away far too long.

She heard the sound of keys being depressed, but as there was no air being supplied to the pipes, there was no sound. It was inconceivable: Her maestro, who loved music more than life itself, was unable to make a sound. She crept closer, and seeing him bent over the keys, imagined the music instead of hearing it. He needed the solace of music; she knew it instinctively. He had always needed the succor of it. In a flash of inspiration, she knew how she could give it to him.

Taking advantage of the screen that kept her out of sight, she positioned herself behind the pipe organ in front of the air chest that supplied the great pipes and took hold of its wheel-handled pump. "Sir," she said, doing her best imitation of a choirboy, "I'm sorry I'm late for practice, Choirmaster." And she began to crank the pump.

-0-0-0-

Tears poured down her face as his music soared into the heights of the church, a paean at turns so tragic and sorrowful that she thought her own heart would break in two. His anger and his pain seeped into the music, nearly overwhelming her with the force of its fury. Yet, it was indefinably exquisite, creating stirring images of hope and longing that made her want to cradle him in her arms and profess her undying love for him. On and on she turned the wheel, telling herself over and over again, _He's wretched and hideous—but I love him, all the same._

Immersed in his thoughts, Erik had not noticed that another man had entered the sanctuary shortly after the music began. The man wore the garments of a Lutheran minister, and seemed to belong to the church. He nodded at Christine and said not a word before sitting in the pastor's chair close by the altar to listen as Erik poured out his soul.

It was then that Christine began to understand Erik's contemptuous words for what he called 'opera music,' a contempt that had stupefied her in the past. What she heard now had nothing to do with the sort of music that had charmed her when she had been his guest in the lake house. At this moment, he was immersed in his music in order to forget the bleakness of the present; it was nothing but a long, terrible, and magnificent sob into which poor Erik put all his cursed misery.

This music bespoke martyrdom in every detail; it led into every part of the abyss, the abyss in which _a loathsome man _lived. It showed Erik beating his poor hideous head against the funereal walls of that Hell and taking refuge there so that he could avoid terrifying men by the sight of him. She listened, devastated, gasping, pitying, and overwhelmed by the swelling of those gigantic chords where Sorrow had been deified. And then there were sounds that rose from the abyss and, gathered together, made a prodigious and menacing flight forming a whirling troop that seemed to mount upward toward heaven as the eagle rises to the sun. Such a triumphal symphony seemed to set the world ablaze so that when the work was finally finished, Ugliness, lifted on the winds of Love, had dared to look into the face of Beauty. It was intoxicating.

The music played on and on for what seemed like hours, and when it stopped, Erik slumped exhausted over the keys, his breath ragged and fast. He pulled himself to his feet when the pastor coughed softly to let him know that he was not alone. Erik opened his mouth, but he could not speak. Nothing but a strangled hiss emerged from his scarred throat.

The pastor wore a kindly expression, and put out his hands as if to say, "Don't be alarmed." Everything about him was unremarkable, from his looks, to the clothing he wore, to the way he spoke; but he carried himself in the manner of a scholar who had vast knowledge in that brain of his and who delighted in sharing it.

"I'm Pastor Kirchberger," the elder man said in warm and friendly voice. "But please, call me Emil."

"I'll be on my way," Erik said in his strangled, wounded voice. "I didn't mean to intrude."

"You aren't intruding. This is your house as much as God's."

Erik regarded him coolly, but stayed behind the screen so his appearance would remain obscured. "I am hardly a child of God."

Kirchberger snorted, but let the derisive comment pass. "In all my years, I've never heard such music before. It was…cathartic. Are you by any chance looking for work? We could use an organist. Our choirmaster has his hands full."

Christine took advantage of this distraction, using it to distance herself from Erik. While the pastor was talking, she quietly slipped to the back of the church, close to the exit. She was far enough away that Erik would not be able to see her distinctly in the dimness, but close enough to hear what was being said. Fortunately, Erik's attention was on Emil. He paid "Christian" no mind.

"I'm only passing through town." He studied Emil's aquiline face, took note of the hands with not a callous on them, noting that the man was unaccustomed to heavy work. He's probably spent his entire life with his nose stuck in the Bible. "What kind of church is this that it has no one to play for the congregation?"

"A poor one," Emil said with a wry grin. "Lutherans tithe, but Bremen's Cathedral has attracted most of the people who live in the area. The few who remain here are either elderly or poor, and have little to spare. Their grandchildren sometimes serve as altar boys and choristers to please them."

"Lutherans," Erik muttered. "I haven't been in a Lutheran church before."

Emil made a steeple with his fingers as he leaned back against the chair. "Then you must have traveled a long way to come here. Most of the people you'll encounter in this part of the world are Protestant."

"I am familiar with Martin Luther and his ninety-five theses," Erik said dryly, "but I admit, I don't fully understand his position on salvation. Do Lutherans really believe that God will forgive a man anything? That salvation of the eternal soul need not be earned?"

The steady smile faded from Emil's face. "Lutherans believe that the Grace of God is freely dispensed by Him and Him alone. One doesn't even need to ask for it. Grace is given—even to those of us who don't believe we deserve it."

"I've never been to confession. It isn't…my way."

At this, Emil perked up. "Confession is between an individual and God. Lutherans don't hear private confessions, unless there are extenuating circumstances. A former Catholic, for instance—" He stopped talking as Erik walked around the screen, showing himself in the darkness.

"Why would God make a monster like me, Father? Make a man so hideous that no one…not even his own mother…could care for him?"

Christine bit her knuckles when she heard the pain in Erik's words, heard the suffering that he had only ever before let bleed into his music.

"Please, don't call me Father. I prefer simply, 'Emil.' Some of us do not believe that God afflicts men with curses, with suffering. We do not believe in a cruel God who tests men with temptations and hardship. We believe God cares for us, and that He suffers when we do."

"If that is true, then what am I to make of this?" Erik pointed to his face. "My entire life has been shaped, determined by my accursed ugliness." With a pained cry, he ripped off the mask and revealed what lay beneath the thin veneer of pure white porcelain. "It has doomed me."

The pastor gripped the arms of the chair, fighting waves of nausea, but he held Erik's steady gaze. "It is…unfortunate. How did this happen?"

"I believe I was born this way. My poor mother could not bear to be near me. I never knew my father. I ran away when I was very young and made my own way."

"No mother, no father? How did you manage?"

Erik shrugged, and with a heavy sigh, he sat back down on the bench. "At first, I roamed and foraged for food. Occasionally, I frightened people into giving me what I needed to survive. Food, clothing, shoes…they'd give me anything if I would leave them alone. It may be hard to believe, hearing me now, but once I had a voice that could be as loud as thunder or as soft as an angel's caress. I could use it persuasively." He began to weave an illusion. "Allow me to demonstrate." He hummed a quiet, soothing melody while Christine watched, agape, as he used his powers on the innocent man.

Emil pressed his hands to his ears and rubbed the middle of his forehead, much as the conductor had done earlier. Erik laughed, a ghastly, terrifying sound, as the siren's song began to take effect. The pastor reached into his pocket and drew out an ancient, battered watch. The glint of gold in the fading light caught Erik's eye.

"Put it away," he said, annoyed. "I don't want your father's watch."

Pastor Kirchberger shook the cobwebs out of his head as he slowly regained his wits. "How do you know it was my father's?"

Erik scoffed in disdain. "A lucky guess."

"That was a very impressive act of mesmerism," Emil said pointedly. "You could probably convince a man to do anything you wanted."

"You don't know the half of it." Erik closed his eyes. "Ill gotten gains. Espionage. Intrigue. Why, if I wished, I could convince a man to take his own life."

"What?" Emil asked, shaken. "Are you confessing to murder?"

"I said, 'if I wished.' For the most part, I've used my little illusions for entertainment as well as for profit. After I escaped from the gypsies, I traveled to Nizhny-Novgorod. Surely you've heard of the great fair there?" He watched the pastor nod, his eyes as big as saucers. "My fame knew no bounds. Soon, the Shah of Persia summoned me to his court, where I became his closest advisor. My powers grew and soon, the Shah wanted to use them for his own purposes…not entirely legal ones." Erik frowned. "People are always trying to use me, to take advantage of my abilities."

"Like the gypsies?" Emil stood and walked closer to Erik, very slowly, like a man approaching a dangerous animal. "You said you escaped. Did they keep you against your will?"

A low groan was the reply. Erik shook his head. "They were…brutal. Beatings were more frequent than meals. They quickly learned that if they kept me weak and ill from exposure to cold and want of nourishment, I was easier to handle. I responded to the reward of rancid food like a hungry cur. I was their trained monkey, their performing pet."

"Young man," the pastor gasped, "How did you survive?"

"At times, I didn't think I would. See this scar?" he said, pointing to an old wound on the back of his hand, the remnant of a severe burn. "It was the reward for stealing a morsel of bread. But worse by far was being told I was a beast, that God could not have made a human as ugly as I am. I was, so they said, a demon! And they treated me accordingly. They made my life a living Hell."

"But you survived. You escaped."

"That I did, but…are you sure you want to hear the rest? I killed a man, or rather, I convinced him to kill himself. It was the only way out. I don't think I could have stood it much longer. I was losing my mind, growing more dangerous. They were afraid of me. They were planning to kill me. There was…discussion among the elders of burning me at the stake as a warlock. They said it was obvious that I was evil. One had only to look at me to see it." He laughed again, that cruel, terrifying laugh that made Christine's throat clench. "Why, it's as plain as the nose on your face!"

"God isn't concerned about how you look, my boy," Emil said, moving closer. He sat down on the bench beside him, as if to show that he wasn't afraid. "It's your soul that matters."

"Didn't St. Matthew say, 'And if thine eye offend thee, pluck it out, and cast it from thee, lest it keep thee out of heaven'?'" Here he clawed at his face absentmindedly, raw red scratches appearing in long, thin lines where his nails rent the flesh.

"We don't interpret that literally! It's meant to be symbolic. Cast out that within you which—"

A choked sob filled the still air. "Which makes Christine hate me?"

"Oh, I understand now. Cherchez la femme. You have been unlucky in love, I take it."

"How droll you are, Pastor Kirchberger! I have never…ever…known love. Tolerance, perhaps. Endurance. Even kindness and pity. But never love."

"Every man needs love. It is the human condition." He stared openly at Erik's ghastly death's head. "No matter what your appearance is, the right woman might…care for you…if you treat her well."

"You're implying that if I were a better man, Christine would love me?"

"I didn't say that. I don't know this 'Christine' of whom you speak. What I said is that we can't earn love. It is given by grace, whether from God or from a fellow human being. You can no more earn love than you can buy your way into Heaven. It's preposterous to think you can."

"Well, if I give you back the chalice and the paten that I stole, will that help?"

Emil jumped up and looked at the altar, where the communion service still sat, waiting for tomorrow's service. "You're joking with me. That's good!" He laughed out loud. "You really had me going!"

The long, shrill shriek of a train whistle shattered the air, and Erik grabbed his coat, shrugging it on as he made for the door.

"Damn it! I've missed my train." He slipped the mask over his face, hiding his true features from view once more.

"But you found something far more important, I hope. Don't hold it against God," Kirchenberger said as he pointed to Erik's face. "He loves you, no matter what."

"I found a vessel for my anguish, nothing more," Erik snarled, before dashing out the door. It clanged shut behind him.

In the silence that remained, the soft sound of Christine's sniffling could clearly be heard. "You can come out now, child," Emil said. "I know you've been listening."

She stood up, and, seeing the shock on the minister's face, she tilted her head and took off the bowler hat, letting loose her long hair.

Emil gazed at her with concern. "He doesn't know you're following him," he said quietly. "Why don't you tell him? Talk it over with him. Whatever is troubling you can be resolved."

She stared at the closed door through which Erik had vanished. "The truth is, I'm afraid of him. Oh, he'd never hurt me, not intentionally," she added hastily. "It's only that…he can be overwhelming. He's a conundrum, a mixture of good and…evil…that both exhilarates and terrifies me."

"He's just a man. Granted, a very ugly man, but—my God!—did you hear that music?"

Her eyes shone bright with tears, and she wiped a few errant ones away. "It's always like that. When he's playing, you hope he will never stop, and when he stops, you crave it. It's what an addiction must be like." She laughed a little, in spite of herself. "Do you think it is possible for a woman to be addicted to a man? To want him in spite of her best interests? To know that any other man could never measure up to Erik?"

"So that is his name, then." He mulled it over in his mind before proceeding. "Sounds Scandinavian. Well, young lady, I am no expert on love, but I have been married for forty years. To the same woman! Imagine that!" He came down the aisle and stood next to her. "Do you know the teachings of Martin Luther, Christine? Don't look shocked that I know your name. He spoke of you. But I suppose you overheard that, didn't you."

"I was born in Sweden," she said, rubbing her nose with her sleeve. "Every Sunday, my father took me to services. He loved the music, and taught me to love it, too. I sang in the choir, and we were faithful members of our local congregation until we had to…before we lost our home."

"It is not our place to judge a man; that is reserved for the Almighty. Remember the words of Martin Luther? 'Pray, and let God worry.'"

"But, what can I do? I can't love a man who is capable of…anything."

"You can, my child. You can hate the sin, but love the sinner."

Upon hearing those words, Christine felt as though a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. Suddenly, it was all crystal clear to her. She could love Erik, embrace his grotesque face and let herself enjoy it, too. She needn't feel guilty for loving a man with a questionable past. He might not be a knight in shining armor, but no man had ever made her feel the way he made her feel. She was his, through and through, no matter what. Now, if only she could catch up with him and tell him, before he disappeared forever. With no train to catch, there was no telling where he would go.

"Thank you, Pastor!" Christine said. She tucked her hair under her hat—it wouldn't do to be seen in public dressed as a man but with long tresses flying behind her as she ran across the market square. She dashed for the station, certain that Erik would be looking for the next train out of Bremen. Little did she know that he had taken an entirely different route, one that would endanger both their lives.

-0-0-0-


	22. Chapter 22

**Authors' Note:** Once again, a big thank you to our readers and reviewers. Earlier this week, I feared there would be no chapter posted this week -- not because it hadn't been written, but because I had a bit of a family emergency. My canine companion of fifteen years, an adorable Jack Russell terrier named Pete, was very sick and we thought we were going to lose him. But the vet immediately knew what the problem was, prescribed the proper medicines, and Pete is getting better and better each day. So now that HD is happy -- she wants to share her happiness by posting this latest chapter. Read and enjoy. Oh...and leave a review if you're so inclined. I can't tell you how happy reviews make me and Lizzy! ~HD

-0-0-0-

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 22**

**HDKingsbury and MadLizzy  
**(c) 2009

-0-0-0-

"_Cum dilectione hominum et odio vitiorum._ With love for mankind and hatred for sin._"_  
**~St. Augustine of Hippo**

-0-0-0-

Christine left the church. Pastor Kirchberger's word kept ringing through her head.

_Pray, and let God worry. You can hate the sin, but love the sinner._

Yes, that was what she must do—find Erik, accept him as is, not according to some romantic ideal, and confess her true feelings. One thing she knew was that she had made up her mind, completely and unequivocally. Her day of vacillating between confidence and doubt, of doing what others expected her to do rather than following her own convictions, were over. She loved Erik and she would allow nothing to stand in the way of their being reunited. It no longer mattered what he had done in the past; all that mattered was the here and now, and their future together. A wistful thought of the wedding dress still on the train flitted through her mind. A shame it was now lost; she would have liked to wear it when she married Erik.

Marrying Erik. Just the thought brought a smile to her face. The way he made her feel…and the way she wanted to make him feel. They had come so far, only to have a foolish misunderstanding separate them, but…first things first.

She exited the door, but found no sign of him. Where could he have gone? He left fewer than fifteen minutes before she had; how could he have gotten so far ahead of her. Determined not to let him get away from her again, she rushed down the street but could see no sign of him. Up and down the narrow, crooked streets she wandered, covering block after block, but it was as if he'd vanished into thin air…like a phantom!

Frustrated, she sat on a bench and asked herself, if she were Erik, what would she be doing right now? They'd both missed their train. Would he do something as simple as going back to catch the next one? Well, there was only one way to find out. Collecting her thoughts, she headed back to the central station.

She spent the next couple of hours there. With her halting German, she questioned the different ticket sellers, managing to get her questions across. No, they all told her. No one like that has been here today, _fräulein_; we would surely have remembered someone like that, with a mask over half of the face. She remained at the station, watching the people come and go, always alert for someone who looked like Erik, but after several hours, she gave up.

With her disappointment growing, she asked herself yet again, where he could have disappeared to? Was it possible that he had decided to return to Paris? Possible, but not likely. Back there he was a parole breaker. And the ticket sellers would have remembered him, whether he'd bought a ticket to Hamburg or to Paris. Besides, she told herself, he still had this mistaken idea about her and Raoul. No, he can't be returning to Paris. He told Bruguière that he was going north. Even after his confession in the church, he hadn't said anything to suggest he had changed his mind. If anything, he was probably more determined than ever to continue on towards Sweden by way of Hamburg and points east.

Well, no use hanging around here in Bremen, she thought. If he hadn't gone by train, what other means of transportation would he use? Ah ha! By horse! But on horseback or by carriage? She got directions to the carriage station from one of the train ticket sellers and scurried on her way. Once there, though, she learned that there had been no carriages to Hamburg today. Scratching off that idea, she considered the other possibility, horseback, and started checking with the local livery stables. She was beginning to fear that this was like looking for a needle in a haystack, when she came upon someone who remembered hiring out a horse to a man matching Erik's description. Did he say where he was going? Yes, to Hamburg. I gave him directions to the Hamburg road. How long ago?

She thanked the young man and took a seat on a bench outside the livery. Should she take the train to Hamburg and wait for him there, she wondered. But if he were going by horse, that meant she could be in Hamburg for who knew how many days before he ever arrived…and how would she know where to wait for him? What if he decided to leave the main road? No, she decided. Better to follow him on the Hamburg road. But…how to do this.

Coincidentally, as she pondered what to do next, two farmers came to the stable. The stable hand welcomed the two like long-lost friends. "Ah, Horst, Udo, good afternoon." The two men likewise greeted the liveryman in a friendly manner. They stood around for a couple of minutes, telling humorous tales of how market day went.

"Have you the wagon ready?" asked Horst, the older of the two. He ran a calloused hand through a short, grizzled beard while his youthful companion set down a couple of earthenware jugs. A lifetime of work in the fields had aged Horst beyond his years, but he was powerfully built. Young Udo was equally muscular, and prided himself on being as strong as an ox. It seemed that the pair had left their wagon for some minor repairs and were here to pick up both their horse and wagon.

"By the way, there's a young lad here who's looking to head towards Hamburg," the employee said, pointing to Christine. "You two take part of the Hamburg road, don't you?"

"You need a ride?" Udo asked. "We're heading in that direction. Not going all the way, but you're welcome to ride as far as we're going."

Christine hesitated.

"These two are okay," said the liveryman with a lopsided grin. "Don't worry. They'll be able to find their way on the road." He winked, as in a little joke between "men."

Christine considered the offer. Why not? After all, there was no reason for them to think she was anything but just another youth visiting the city. So, with few options left to her, she accepted the ride. Once the sturdy draft horse was hitched to the wagon and the farmers' provisions were loaded, she hopped into the back with Horst while Udo took the reins.

As soon as they were outside the city limits, the two farmers started passing one of the jugs back and forth. Christine noticed that the jug bore an imprint of a key, similar to the one she'd seen on the Bremen coat-of-arms emblazoned throughout the city. Horst took a swig, holding his breath as he gulped, and let out a long sigh when he finished. "Gotta hand it to Bremeners," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "They know their pilsner."

-0-0-0-

Erik left the church and quickly headed back to the market square, where the crowd parted as he approached, hurrying towards the train station like a dark cloud scuttling across the horizon. He castigated himself for missing the train, berated himself at the same time for running away from his problems in Paris.

Since the earliest he could remember, he was always running away, fleeing some_thing_ or some_one_. As a child, it had been the miserable circumstances of his first home; later, the cruelty of the gypsies who'd held him prisoner. Now, it was the Christine and not one, but two rejections by her. Why he had ever trusted her after the disaster at the opera, he would never know. She had made a fool of him, publicly and privately. All of Paris knew it, thanks to the spectacle at the opera and the ensuing trial. The press had made a field day of it, had exposed it for all to see. _Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me_. He repeated it over and over in his mind like a mantra.

On the other hand, there was Emil Kirchberger, the pastor at the humble Lutheran church in the shadow of the great cathedral of Bremen. Knowing he would never see the man again had made it easier for Erik to pour out the sordid details of his past. He had been unable to stop himself from talking after the man sat still, though pallid and resolute, once Erik removed his mask. Never had he seen such abject _acceptance_ in his life.

Angrily, he pounded his walking stick into the brick beneath his feet as he took great strides across the paved square. "How long must I keep running from _people_?" he wondered aloud, oblivious to the repartee being thrown his way. "There goes the Grim Reaper," one humorist opined.

Intuition niggled at the back of his mind. "It's not people you're running from," it said, "tis yourself." If only he could be as accepting of himself and as forgiving of his past as the pastor had promised God to be. Was it possible to obtain forgiveness, after all he had done? He had no faith, but dared he…hope?

Hope is hard to kill—even in a man as unhappy as Erik. He began to question whether his philosophy of living had been faulty, whether his life had been in vain. What if all along the solution to his misery had not been in looking to Christine for happiness and completion, but in looking at himself? What if the solution had been within his own power to attain? Such thinking led him to puzzle over his shortcomings.

No, that could not possibly be…could it? Yes, he had been impulsive, especially where Christine was concerned. It was too late for to beg for forgiveness from her, but perhaps he could forgive himself those trespasses and move on. Was it possible, as Kirchberger implied, to simply start over—to be the man Christine seemed to think he was during the past few blissful months in Paris? If he could not be the man she loved, might he be a man she could respect?

He felt that the answer lay somewhere to the North. Christine had an unflagging optimism that was inspiring. Was it a product of her homeland? Were others in Sweden as _accepting _as she was? Perhaps it might be possible to find some place to finally call home, even if it were on the outskirts of town so that he would have minimal contact with _people_. If so, the journey would be worth the effort. He accepted that he would never see her again, but if he could travel to the country she loved and spoke of fondly, then he would feel, if only in his withered heart, a closer somehow to her.

Instantly, his mind was made up. _Northwards it is._ He patted the wallet, ensuring that it was secure inside his vest; it felt painfully thin under Erik's bony fingertips. His funds were running low after giving so much money to that boy, Jabes, in Lille. No doubt, the kid had already frittered it away. _No use crying over spilled milk,_ he thought. _I can no more change that than I can change what happened with Christine. She made her choice. If I were any kind of man, I'd be happy for her instead of bemoaning my fate._

If he could change his point of view, he would need to start with the long-gone train. Instead of looking at it as a calamity, he should count it a blessing in disguise. _Why hurry to Hamburg? It isn't as though I'm being run out of town on a rail. _He laughed out loud at his inadvertent joke. He was gone from France for good as far as he was concerned, and what was more, he was free to enjoy the German countryside. His parole had confined him in ways that chaffed and rubbed, but here, he was his own man—at least, he would be free if he could manage to keep out of trouble.

The train station was only a few blocks away, but the thought of getting on board another train made him anxious. Riding on the train had been claustrophobic, at best. The compartment was as tight as a coffin, and equally as unpleasant, and he should know: He had slept in one during his darkest days when he had felt more dead than alive. Being aboard the train had been all too reminiscent of the cramped prison cell that had been his home while awaiting trial in Paris. If he waited for the next train, he would likely end up in a public car where he would suffer being gawked at by strangers as though he were on exhibit. He shook his head. No. Not for him. Never again.

He could try for passage on a boat; Bremen was, after all, a thriving port city, but the clip-clop of horse's hooves from a passing cab gave him an idea. _Why not rent a horse and enjoy the countryside? I can speak German like a native, and this would give me a chance to relax._ He laughed at the prospect of living off the land, thinking it a pleasurable diversion. On horseback, it would take several days to reach Hamburg. That would give him more than enough time to think of what to do with the rest of his life.

His mind made up, he set about purchasing the necessary provisions and renting a horse. With low funds, his facility as a haggler was called to the fore, but with a little of the old charm and a dash of persuasion, he was soon set for the long ride, making a mental note to wire Bruguière for funds once he reached Hamburg.

-0-0-0-

"What's the matter with you, Christian? That's what you said your name was, right?" It was the older of the two men, Horst, who was speaking to her. He and his companion, Udo, had been passing the beer jug back and forth, with Horst imbibing more than his comrade. The effects of the beer were becoming apparent, and he was starting to slur his words. "Here," he said, insisting the 'Christian' take a swig. "You'll feel better." He slapped 'Christian' on the back.

Christine grimaced, trying to keep up a brave front. She had made up a story in her faltering German of how she was a Swedish lad who'd traveled a bit and was now making 'his' way back home. It was easier to explain her lack of command of German this way. "Uh…thank you, but no," she replied. She saw Horst frown and considered that it might be a good idea to continue on her own. She glanced about, looking for some sign of habitation, but there were no meadows or farmers' fields nearby, as they were traveling through a wooded area at the moment. Oh well; better to part ways now, while the sun was still up, than later at night. "I…appreciate the ride, but I think I'll say good-bye and be getting off here."

Udo looked around, confused. "Here? Now? But…we're in the middle of nowhere. I mean, the nearest village is still several kilometers up the road. It's getting close to sunset, and it is a long way to walk in the dark."

Christine shrugged off their concerns. Her sixth sense was tingling, leaving her with an uncomfortable feeling. The sooner she left these two behind, the better. "That's all right," she said, doing her best to sound full of bravado. "I'm used to walking long distances. Besides, I think I've been sitting too long as it is." She rubbed her lower back for emphasis.

Horst gave a rude snort. "What? We're not good enough for you?"

"Oh, let him go," said Udo as he pulled back on the reins to slow down the horse. "He don't want to ride with us? It's no skin off our noses." He directed to horse to the side of the road and drew the wagon to a halt.

Christine scooted to the edge of the wagon, when suddenly Horst lunged out, grabbing her by the arm.

"Ouch!" she yelled. "Let me go!"

She attempted to free herself from Horst's grip, but his grasp only tightened. He yanked her arm into an awkward position, forcing a scream of pain from her.

As she struggled, her hat fell off. The hairpins came undone, and her reddish-gold tresses tumbled down. "What have we here?" said Horst with a nasty laugh. "Christian…or maybe Christine?"

Udo blinked. "You mean…he's a she? Hey, just let her go."

"Not without payment. After all, we let her ride in our wagon. The least she can do is give us a kiss."

Christine tried to squelch down the panic rising in her. She had dealt with drunks in the past, especially at the opera house. There had been one particularly unpleasant encounter with Joseph Buquet when he'd gotten overly friendly with her. She maneuvered her way out of Horst's embrace and jumped off the wagon, but she lost her balance and the two quickly followed.

Whatever misgivings Udo may have had disappeared, and he grabbed her in a clumsy embrace. "Not so fast, little missy. We're gonna have fun," he grinned, following Horst's lead. The next thing he knew, he was doubling over in pain, Christine having had the satisfaction of giving him a well-placed knee to the groin.

She was about to scamper off but Horst quickly caught up with her, anger flashing in his eyes. He grabbed a handful of her long hair and pulled hard, bringing her up short. "Ungrateful bitch. Is that any way to treat a person?"

-0-0-0-

Erik shrugged the heavy wool greatcoat closer to his thin frame. Earlier, the day had been pleasant, but as the sun sank lower on the horizon and the evening breeze stirred, he was reminded that autumn can bring with it unpredictable weather.

He gave his horse, a sturdy grey roadster, some slack in the reins and patted the side of its neck. "Good Johan," he said quietly. The gelding snorted in response, bobbing his head up and down and turning his sharp ears towards a raucous noise behind them. "It's only travelers," Erik told him, as he listened to the revelry. "Sounds like they've been celebrating."

Again, his intuition needled him. Too many times in the past, he had been inconvenienced by people overtaking him on a lonely road, people who weren't always kind—and he bore the scars to prove it. There had been one particularly memorable occasion when Erik had been knocked down, ridiculed, and beaten within an inch of his life. Emil Kirchberger might have been a compassionate sort, but out here in the countryside, who could say what might happen.

He pulled off the road and waited for the group to pass him by. Once they passed, he could safely resume his trip, keeping an eye on them from behind. Or, maybe he would camp here for the night. Johan nibbled at the sweet grass underfoot, and slowly flicked his tail as Erik tethered him to a bush. He lifted off the saddlebags with his meager provisions inside, cleaned the horse's hooves, and then settled down far enough away from the road to be inconspicuous. He was good at hiding in plain sight, as befitted the man once known as the King of Magicians. If he remained still and quiet, chances were high that they would pass him by, never knowing how close they'd been to the Angel of Death. He smiled grimly at the thought of it, and considered jumping out at the right moment and shouting, "Boo!" for old times' sake.

The voices grew nearer, and Erik cocked his head to listen and to ascertain whether there was any danger. He could make out a horse cart not too far away, the type farmers used to haul their harvest to market. Inside were two men, both of whom were imbibing liberally from a jug that they were passing back and forth between them with ever-increasing carelessness. A familiar-looking person rode in the back wearing a pained expression that spoke volumes. He had seen him before….

Erik leaned forward, his curiosity getting the better of him. It was the same boy he'd seen on the train, the clumsy one who had bumped into him. Come to think of it, that boy had also been in the market square in Bremen. _Well, if he was following me, he'd better thank his lucky stars that the Phantom is a reformed man. _Erik wondered at the audacity of the scrawny kid. _Probably thought I had something worth stealing. _

At this moment, the lad seemed to be on the losing end of a heated argument. It was escalating, beginning with a minor nudge that soon turned into outright pushing and shoving. In the midst of the jostling, the boy seemed to be falling off the cart. _No, not falling, but jumping!_ Erik realized with a shock. Whatever would possess him to do that?

The big man—the nasty, drunken one with the red face and the fists like hams—grabbed the youth by the arm and twisted it hard enough to make the boy's knees buckle. Erik turned away, swallowing hard at the sight of it. _It is no concern of Erik's,_ he told himself. _Why should Erik get involved?_ It was none of his business until, that is, the lad let out a scream.

It wasn't a boy at all, but a woman. Erik stared in disbelief as he saw the hat knocked from the "lad's" head. He watched, frozen, as long locks of strawberry-blond hair tumbled down. His heart skipped a beat. It was _Christine_!

And she was in trouble.

-0-0-0-


	23. Chapter 23

To Be Loved  
Chapter 23

By HDKingsbury and MadLizzy  
(c) 2009

"_The joy came from finding at last what hatred was made for…. He felt that he could so fight, so hate with a perfect hatred, for a whole year."_  
~C.S. Lewis, _Perelandra_

-0-0-0-

Soundlessly, Erik sprang from the underbrush and was upon them like a great bird of prey swooping down on its victim. With one fluid motion, he brought the walking stick down with all his considerable might on the back of Horst's legs, dropping the man to his knees.

Crying out in shock and pain, Horst raised his arms to protect his head and face, but with stunning suddenness, Erik cracked the stick on the top of his opponent's shoulder, dislocating the joint instantly. A sickening pop signaled the injury, and Horst screamed in agony as he watched his arm fall uselessly to his side.

Startled by the commotion, the draft horse bolted and sped down the road, spilling the contents of the wagon as it bounced along ruts and kicked up a cloud of dust.

Erik commanded Christine silently, without moving his lips. His voice was in her ear, clear as a bell.

_Run! What are you waiting for? I said run!_

She stood rooted to the spot, frozen with fear and unable to move an inch.

He turned his fury on Udo, striding towards him with lightning fast speed.

"What are you?" the youth whispered, backing up. His heart hammered in his chest like a drum. "Some kind of demon?"

A low growl signaled a warning as Erik crouched and made ready to spring. "Take your friend and go," he snarled, "before I send you to your doom!"

"I-It's broken," Horst whimpered, ashen and shaky, crumpled on ground like a rag doll, cradling his injured arm. Tears streamed down his stubbled cheeks.

The Phantom sneered at him. "You should be grateful that's all I did!" He rounded on the lecher, towering over him. "You _touched_ her! I should rip off your filthy _appendage_and force it down your throat for what you tried to do to her."

A clicking noise pricked at his ears. Erik slowly turned, an eerie grin stretching out his ghoulish mouth as he appraised Udo with new found interest. "What have we here? Does the pup have teeth?"

Christine followed his gaze and gasped, clasping her hands tight across her mouth as she saw Udo draw an antique pistol that had been concealed beneath his heavy farmer's jacket and aim it directly at Erik's heart.

-0-0-0-

The muzzle shook in Udo's trembling hand. He held the gun tightly, trying to steady his aim with both hands. The ancient dragoon was heavier than it looked; he struggled to keep it level. Sweat poured down his face as he fought the urge to flee.

Erik grinned malevolently. He gave not a whit for himself; his immediate concern was Christine's safety. "Careful, boy," he said, his voice filled with menace. "That horse pistol is a hundred years old. It is liable to blow up in your face."

Udo swallowed hard, his reply stuck in his throat. "It'll put a hole right through you!" he choked out.

Christine felt rather than heard Erik's voice, followed by a tingling sensation between her eyes. Her ears tickled, too. She blinked, trying to clear her mind, but was unable to take her gaze off the gun. Whatever was happening, Udo must have felt it too, for he had taken one hand off the pistol, swatting at an invisible insect that was pestering him.

"You do not want to shoot me," Erik said soothingly. "I am no threat to you." Even damaged, he was able to project his will, allowing it to envelop them with velvety softness, clothing them in warmth. The Voice was meant for Udo, but it affected Christine as well, filling her with sadness and a little envy. She wanted It to speak to her, too.

The young man wavered. "I…I'll kill you where you stand, whatever you are! Fiend!"

The intensity of the strumming sensation increased, and Christine heard a faint hum. Udo heard it too, judging by the confusion that spread across his wide face. He straightened out his arm to fire the lethal shot, but hesitated.

"You won't hurt us. It is you who are a danger to society. Why don't you turn that gun on the one who really deserves to die?"

The farmer stared back blankly, his expression as vacant as an empty house. No longer in control of his actions, he began to lower the gun.

Erik continued to speak. Christine could not understand all that he was saying, but she knew fear when she saw it, and watched in horror as Udo, mindless as an automaton, shifted the gun and aimed it directly at his friend's head. Horst shrank back, gurgling with horror; then he humiliated himself when a wet stain appeared on the crotch of his pants.

"You disappoint me." Erik stared hard at them both. "Loved ones at home, awaiting your return, needing the medicines and other goods you bought today, but instead of hurrying back to them, you choose to dilly dally with this innocent girl. How many others have there been, I wonder? How many times have you kept your families waiting while you indulged yourselves in expensive beer and who knows what forms of _entertainment_."

The shame that blushed across Udo's cheeks told Erik all he needed to know. "You don't deserve to live," he rasped, his voice cold as the grave. "You've brought this all upon yourselves." He began to weave an illusion of impending doom, an illusion only the two men could perceive. Images of catastrophic destruction filled their minds, the aftermath of a _Dies Irae_ from which there was no escape. They pictured their village laid waste, their homes in ruins, their families dead and their corpses bloating in the sunlight. Pestilence and famine awaited them both. It was inescapable.

"God, forgive me," Udo prayed as he sank to his knees beside his friend.

Erik laughed scathingly, a petrifying sound that struck Christine full force like a deadly undertow. She was witnessing it first-hand, this Phantom's playground. Her knees buckled, but she felt Erik holding her up. He had used his own body to shield her from danger.

The mordant laughter stopped and for a tense moment, serene Hush took its place. It was still and calm when Erik vowed, "God forgives. The Phantom does not."

She covered her ears. Though she did not know what the men were experiencing, having witnessed the way Kirchberger had handed over his watch back in the church in Bremen, Christine had an inkling. Her wildest imaginings came true when Udo, who could not help himself, raised the gun to the level of his eyes and put the muzzle to his temple. She cried out feebly as the youth began to squeeze the trigger. "Erik! Let him go!"

Erik turned and stared at her uncomprehendingly. His countenance was wrathful; every inch of his body was tense with rage and hatred. He was Vengeance personified.

Then, the veil lifted from his mismatched eyes. With tacit understanding of her dread, he turned his attention to the boy and Udo pointed the gun skywards. The shot was fired harmlessly into the air.

A hissing noise signaled the release of the Punjab lasso. Erik stretched out his long arm as a thin whisk of invisible line zinged through the air and snagged the dragoon. In the next instant, Erik was putting it into the deep pocket of his own coat.

"Why didn't you do that in the first place?" Christine shrieked.

Erik sighed impatiently. "Because there was the chance that the fool would have jerked the trigger." He shook his head. "You might have been shot as the gun was pulled out of his hand. Besides, if he had killed me, I doubt either of them would have been gentle with you."

The spell was broken by Christine's intervention. Udo, slowly regaining his senses, was doing his damnedest to shake off the effects of the mesmerism, while Horst sat whimpering in the dust. Erik seemed amused by it all.

"What did you do to them?" She picked up her hat and clutched it to her chest, as though it offered her some small solace.

Erik patiently rewound the lasso and tucked it into his sleeve, a habit of many years' practice. "I didn't do anything. It was the Siren. When the Siren sings…." He shrugged, unwilling to explain further. "Oh, Christine, you foolish child! What were you thinking? Didn't your father teach you not to accept rides with strangers?" He checked both of the men for weapons. He frowned at their paltry pocketknives, and tossed them carelessly into the underbrush.

"No," she said icily. "My father taught me to trust in the goodness of people."

"And look where it got you," he snapped. He turned his attention to the two men whose lives were in the balance, and barked orders at them. "Go. Now. Do not return. There is only Death here." He glowered at them. "And remember that it is this Angel who spared you," he said, indicating Christine by a toss of his head. "You have her to thank for your sorry hides."

Udo scrambled to his feet and pulled Horst, limping, with him. The wagon was a short distance away, a wheel having caught in the ditch by the side of the road. Fortunately for them, the horse had enough sense to stop and wait for the farmers to set it to rights. They clambered in and Udo slapped the reins, urging the powerful animal on as fast as it could go.

Erik watched until they disappeared over the next hill, and then peered at Christine curiously. "Why were you following me, anyway? Shouldn't you be home, planning your wedding, instead of traipsing about the German countryside?"

-0-0-0-

Christine stared at Erik. That he was angry was obvious. Well, she was not exactly pleased with the current situation, either. Now that her brush with those two louts was over, her frustration with Erik came bubbling to the fore. She took several deep breaths, trying to slow her racing heart.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Erik growled. The emergency may have passed, but his nerves were still taut and now that he had a chance to take everything in, he was more than a little confused. "You are supposed to be in Paris! And why are you dressed like a schoolboy?"

A scowl formed on Christine's face. His refusal to address her by name along with the icy tone of his voice were not helping matters. Well, two could play this game. Besides, was she not the aggrieved party?

This was hardly the warm welcome she had imagined. "I wanted to get out of the city before winter sets in, see the sights, change of pace...what do you think? That I came after you?"

"I don't know what's gotten into you. Do you realize what might have happened to you? You could have been killed!"

The scowl didn't disappear. "I had things under control." She smiled smugly as she recalled with satisfaction the pain she'd caused Udo. "I'm not helpless, you know."

"Those were dangerous men."

"They were a couple of drunken farmers."

"Who were also dangerous men."

"If you say so," she replied tersely, refusing to give in.

"You still have not answered my question. What are you doing here?"

She sighed heavily. The man could be so stubborn! "I might ask whatever possessed _you _to write _this!"_ She pulled the letter from her pocket and thrust it in his face. "You did not even have the decency to come to me, to talk to me. Erik, I thought we had moved past this…this lack of trust."

He grabbed at the letter, but not fast enough. She snatched it out of his hands, smoothed and folded it carefully, and tucked it away for safekeeping. It was, after all, a love letter—from Erik—and she treasured it more than she was willing to let on during the argument.

He drew in a deep breath and began pacing. "I should think my reasons were obvious," he said, bitingly.

"Oh?" she questioned sarcastically. God, but the man could be infuriating! "Would you care to elaborate, or shall I call upon my clairvoyant powers and read your mind?" she said, exaggerated sweetness dripping from her every word. She put a finger to her forehead, playing the part of a mind reader.

"I saw you. I saw…the two of you. I…I heard you—"

"Heard what? Heard me congratulate Raoul on his engagement to Clementine Beauchamp?"

"De Chagny's…engaged? To…who?" he said in a whisper, the enormity of his mistake beginning to sink in.

"Clementine Beauchamp. She's quite a catch, I understand. Old family. Lots of money. Just the sort of woman a noble family looks for."

"He's engaged to…somebody else?" he repeated.

Christine crossed her arms. "Yes. He wanted to tell me himself rather than I should read it in the papers. It was the least an old friend could do. And I was happy for him. Is that so bad?"

"But…I don't understand. I saw…"

"You saw what you wanted to see. How many times have you preached this very thing to me? Erik, do you have so little faith in me that you could not even come to me? To ask?" She let him ponder the terrible nature of his mistake, watching his ravaged face turn from a vivid, angry red to a sickly white. "Or is it that you lack faith in yourself?"

Then her own anger faded. She knew Erik had suffered. Time to put that away, once and for good. Softly, gently, she whispered the words he needed to hear. "Do you think I would have kissed you if I were not serious about you? About my feelings for you?"

"I…I still don't understand."

"Then let me explain it to you in terms so clear, there will no longer be any misunderstandings." She placed her arms around his neck, pulled his face to hers, and placed her lips upon his.

Electricity shot through Erik's body. He had never felt such a jolt of emotion before, such beautiful, tingling intensity. It was like the first time they had kissed, that night below the opera house, only more so. This time, however, there was no overwhelming sadness, but rather a sense of completion. He could not have said if the kiss lasted mere seconds or minutes…or hours. When they finally broke the kiss, he looked deep into Christine's face, searching for any sign that she had found his embrace repugnant. Instead, he saw love.

"Does this mean you are no longer angry with me?" he finally managed to say, his senses still stunned by what had just happened.

"What do you think?" she said. "You know, you are probably right."

"I am? About what?"

"About how I might have been in very real danger."

Erik let out a guffaw. "Are you telling me…that I was right?"

She grinned coquettishly. "Maybe. Just this once."

He shook his head, finding himself somewhere between amusement and ecstasy, and not knowing what if anything to do about it.

"There is only one thing I'm sorry about," Christine said, breaking into his thoughts.

"Only one?"

"Yes. It is the wedding dress. I had to leave it on the train with the rest of my clothes."

His forehead creased, puzzled. "What wedding dress?"

"The one you asked me to wear _that _night."

"You kept it?"

She nodded. "I had no idea Mme Giry had packed it in my portmanteau."

"You mean, Mme Giry is involved in this…this escapade? Should I be looking for her to pop out from behind a tree, too?"

"She is the one who helped me decide what I needed to do when I realized you had run out on me. And no, she did not come along with me."

"You and I need to talk."

"Yes, we do," she said, quite agreeably.

"But not now." He gestured towards the shadowed road. "It is getting dark; we need to get off this road, and we need to find someplace to spend the night."

"Why do we need to get off the road?"

"Because we have no idea if our friends will be coming back with reinforcements."

Christine shuddered at the thought, and Erik felt sorry for having mentioned it. He spoke softly to her. "You must not worry. We are safe, for the moment, but the night is far from over. Come."

"Where are we going?"

"I have a horse to catch, if he hasn't run back to Bremen by now."

"Run away?" She peered into the woods, in the direction Erik was leading her. An owl hooted nearby, causing her to nearly jump out of her skin. "Are we stranded?" she asked, her voice quivering slightly.

Erik came to the place that he had left the horse. He knelt down, examining the broken branch of the bush where he had tethered Johan, but the horse was long gone. Scattered about were many of the provisions he had purchased in Bremen earlier in the day, now trampled by the horse when it had fled. Christine helped him gather up what could be salvaged.

"Obviously, the horse was frightened by the gunshot," Erik remarked. "I have no doubt that he is probably half-way home by now, looking forward to a good feed and a comfortable stable in which to sleep."

"So, we _are_ stranded," she said, looking glum.

"Yes, Christine," Erik said curtly. "You are all alone in the woods with a very dangerous man—a man who could kill without a care, without so much as a touch. How does that make you feel?"

-0-0-0-


	24. Chapter 24

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 24  
HDL**

_"Still, the sheepdog disturbs the sheep. He is a constant reminder that there are wolves in the land." _  
~Lt. Col. David Grossman, _On Combat_

0-0-0

"How does that make me feel?" She looked away, concentrating on the toe of her shoe, the grass beneath her feet – anything but his sad and curious eyes. "Frankly, I'm relieved. You protected me, Erik. What woman doesn't dream of a hero who will keep her safe?"

"I'm no hero," he harrumphed. "You expect me to guide you and to guard you?" He turned away, staring at the landscape around them as if it had the answer he was seeking. Neither, it seemed, was comfortable looking the other in the eye at that moment. "That's what you asked of him—that boy—as I recall." He glanced at her over his shoulder, his stance rigid and tense.

"That 'boy' is a man and his name is Raoul, and there is a vast difference between what he offered me and what you offered me. Raoul, kind and good though he is, has never been able to see beyond the traditional role expected of him. His idea was to lead me into the safe and narrow confines of his aristocratic circle." She stepped close to him, and rested her forehead against his back. He was lean and wiry, and she could feel the edge of his shoulder blade beneath his thick wool coat. "But I don't think I could ever live like that. It is…too stifling." She wrapped her arms around his waist and pulled him closer.

He could feel every soft curve of her body, but Erik tore himself away from her embrace. These displays of affection and protestations of sincerity were making his head spin. His heart had been broken not once, but three times by Christine—and he didn't look forward to having it torn asunder yet again. In Paris, he had been certain that she wanted nothing to do with him, causing him to flee the city and all he had loved, convinced that he was meant to live a life of solitude and loneliness, and embark on a journey, this new quest to the North. He had begun to accept all of this, when out of the blue, here she was again. It was too soon, much too soon, to make sense of what was happening.

In silence, he bent over and resumed picking up the trampled provisions, shaking out a blanket and scrutinizing a barely recognizable slab of bacon that had been ground into the dirt. It was no good. Even the small cask of drinking water had been dashed against a rock. "Damned skittish horse," he mumbled.

Christine gathered up a crumpled tin cup and plate, salvaging what she could find. The utensils were bent beyond recognition. Erik snorted derisively when he caught her trying to straighten them out, and was rewarded with a fierce glare that reminded him that Christine was no shrinking violet. Not anymore. She was a grown woman. It would not do to underestimate her again.

Satisfied that they had gathered up all that could be used, the pair set out at a brisk pace paralleling the Hamburg Road, keeping out of sight as an added precaution. They walked a while, eventually coming to a small path that passed several small farms. They took the lane and continued walking until any habitation was well behind them. Twilight was upon them, and Erik pointed to the horizon.

"It appears we may be getting some rain later tonight. Have you taken a look at those clouds building off to the west? We'll need to seek shelter." He scanned the countryside, searching for a safe haven. "Over there, near that copse of trees. It looks like a good place to build a lean-to. It would at least provide us with some shelter for the night."

She stood ramrod straight, glanced at the spot he was pointing to, and then looked him dead in the eye. "First, I have a question."

He suspected what was coming next, and steeled himself. "Ask away."

"No prevarications, Erik." She shook a delicate finger at him, scolding him. "I mean it. No half-truths, no fairy tales."

He nodded, feeling like the boy caught dipping the little girl's hair in the inkwell. "On my word of honor, Mademoiselle. Nothing but the truth."

"Did you ever mesmerize me?"

He laughed, but seeing the scorn on her face, knew that was a mistake. A big one. He scrambled to recover. "If I had, you would not be asking this question. You would never have known."

"You can…make people forget?"

Again, a maddeningly silent response from the masked man. He nodded slowly. "I could have finished off those men, in a suitable manner, of course, and made it so that you wouldn't remember ever having met them."

"But…how can I know you're telling me the truth?"

"Earlier, you said that I should have trusted you. Trust works both ways, Christine. You were right. I should have trusted you. I should have come to you and asked you what had transpired between you and de Chagny. Instead, I jumped to conclusions…and this is the result. But if I am asked to trust you, I must demand the same in return."

She felt woozy. "Why didn't you use your power? Why didn't you make me marry you ages ago, last year, before Raoul returned to Paris?"

"I could have. Could have made you love me, made you my wife, made…. But, oh, Christine! To be loved for oneself—that is the greatest exception."

"The greatest exception?" she puzzled. "I don't understand."

"Even one as hideous as I can be loved, for reasons that are beyond your ken. A woman may love a man who can provide her with security – dare I say, protection? – wealth, a name, comfort. A man may love a woman who is beautiful and talented, independent and strong. You, for example," he rasped, "loved what I could teach you about music. You loved my voice."

"I still love your voice!" she interjected. "I love the way you look at me, as though I am the only woman in the world." When he started to interrupt, she held up her hand to silence him. "I love your compositions. I love the way you play any instrument you touch. I love the little jokes you make, the tricks you play. I love the way you make me laugh." She pulled his farewell letter from her pocket and as she read it again, silently, tears began to fall. "But most of all, I love the way you love me. I can't imagine ever being loved by any other man the way you love me." She stood close enough to feel his warm breath upon her face. "I love you Erik," she said quietly, "and I intend to spend the rest of my life loving you…if you will let me."

He raised and lowered his hands helplessly, feeling like a man falling into an abyss and scrambling for purchase. It was no use shielding his heart any longer. He let out a moan and sank to his knees before wrapping his arms around her waist and clinging to her like a lost soul. "I won't be pitied," he gasped. "I won't beg you for your love. I won't apologize for what I am." He tore off the mask and stared at her with wide eyes that pleaded for understanding. "And I won't have you fear me. Oh, my dearest Christine, if you but loved me, I should be as gentle as a lamb. You could do anything you wanted with me."

There had been a time when her instinct would have screamed at her to recoil, to run from the horror before her, but she had grown beyond that. Yes, his face was still hideous, but she knew now that she could love it, that she did love it. She cradled his distorted face in her soft hand, and gently ran her thumb across his deformed lips. "I know exactly what you are, Erik, and I neither pity you nor feel the need to make excuses for you. I'm not afraid of you. You are the man I love." She knelt in the grass beside him, caressed his terrible face, and wiped away his tears. "Don't you love me, too?"

"I have always loved you, Christine. Without you, I am lost."

"Then, tell me that you will never leave me again. Never." She leaned forward and tenderly kissed his forehead.

"I'll never leave you, Christine. Not even death can separate us," he said. He stood up and sealed his vow with a chaste kiss.

One innocent kiss led to another and another, each growing more passionate than the last, their pent-up passion that had long been held in check was at last unleashed. Aware of only each other, they paid little heed to the approaching squall that threatened on the horizon.

0-0-0

"It's…it's so small! I expected it to be much larger. Are they all this size?"

Erik frowned, dismayed at Christine's criticism. "It is not small," he countered. "It is as big as any other. You will find it quite serviceable."

"No, it's not; it's falling down." Christine grimaced and gave the central pole of the lean-to a light shake to prove her point, causing a couple of loose branches that served as part of the roof to fall down.

After their embrace, Erik had carefully replaced his mask and had set about building a shelter from branches, but now he felt his pride deflating like a pricked balloon. He grunted as he picked up the limbs Christine had jiggled loose and replaced them by stabbing them into the holes she'd created. "It's a temporary shelter, not a house. It will do for the night."

"You mean…we're supposed to sleep there?"

Erik bristled slightly. "I'm sorry that it does not meet with your usual standards."

Then she surprised him, laughing as she clapped her hands together. "No, silly! I'm not complaining. It's wonderful!" She twirled around a few times, dancing with joy. "This is just like when I was a child and traveled the countryside with my father!" She scampered about, gathering dry leaves and underbrush for them to sleep upon. With a blanket on top, it would be as good as any mattress. "Can we have a campfire?"

"Can we have a...a what?" He eyed the bed nervously, anticipating that he would be sitting up all night keeping guard while Christine rested.

"A campfire!" More joyous laughter. "We could sing songs and tell ghost stories! I remember those dark stories of the north that my father used to tell me. You would love them, Erik. Especially the ones about a grumpy old troll who steals away with the princess."

The bed made, she next set about gathering tinder, kindling and dry wood for a fire. Erik had to hurry to keep pace with her.

"Very funny," he said, trying to fight back a grin but not able to. "You're enjoying this, and don't bother denying it. Admit it. You are having the time of your life."

"Yes, it's true." Just then, her stomach growled. "The only thing that would make it better would be if we had a little something to eat."

They found some rocks and built a small hearth within a stone circle. Putting the tinder and kindling in place, Erik found the pack of matches he'd brought with him and lit the fire. While the wood crackled, he pulled the roll he'd bought in Lille out of his pocket and looked at it comically. "It's as hard as a rock, but it is nourishment and should tide you over until I get us something better. Just don't break a tooth."

Christine gnawed on it. "If I could break it in two, I'd give you half."

"I'm not hungry right now, but I won't allow you to starve, Christine. I promise."

"I don't want to be a burden. I can take care of myself."

"How about this. If I catch some game and clean it, you'll cook it?"

"Over our campfire?" She grinned hopefully.

Erik smiled. "Yes, over our campfire."

"What will you catch?"

"A hare, a boar—or maybe a bear," he jested. "This looks like good rabbit habitat, and they like to come out this time of the evening to eat."

"Or be eaten."

A short time later, a brace of rabbits was roasting on spits over the fire. The aroma was mouth watering. They were both sitting by the fire, enjoying its warmth and the anticipation of hot food.

"If I had the ingredients," said Erik, "I could make hasenpfeffer."

"Hasen what?"

"Hasenpfeffer. Rabbit stew."

"When we get to Hamburg, maybe we can buy ourselves a bowl. And a spoon!"

"By the time we get to Hamburg, you'll no doubt never want to eat rabbit again."

She laughed. "How did you learn to catch rabbits?"

"When I was young it was either hunt or starve, and such skills served me well in my later years by keeping down the _rodentia_ near my lake house."

Christine balked. "You ate…rats?"

"Of course not! I merely sought to keep down their numbers, or else to teach them to avoid my home."

She checked the rabbits, determining that they were ready to eat. She retrieved the roasted rabbits from the stakes, and pulled the meat from the bones. This she piled on the tin plate and set it in front of them, like a communal platter.

"Come to think of it," she said between tasty nibbles, "I never saw one in the cellars, although there were plenty in the living quarters."

He offered her a sip of brandy from his flask, and watched in fascination as an amber drop of it lingered on her lower lip. When she caught it with her small pink tongue, he realized he was staring at her. He cleared his throat.

"As you know," he said cheerfully, "I am fluent in many languages, and after living alone for so many years underneath the opera, with rats as my only companions, I learned to interpret their squeaks and squawks—to understand their rodent language, if you will."

Her eyes widened. "You can speak to the animals?" She was amazed. First mesmerism, now an animal linguist.

Erik nodded his head, puffing his chest with no little pride. "One day, I noticed that my little traps were no longer as effective as they once were. I listened quietly to the sounds of the rats in the darkness." He paused to steal a glance at her. "And it was then that I overheard their leader—the largest and wisest of them all—warning the others, saying, 'Keep your paws at the level of your eyes!'"

Such a revelation was astonishing, until it dawned on her that Erik was teasing her. "Oh, you…you…" She burst into gales of laughter. "You are.... You really had me believing you for a moment."

Erik found her laughter contagious, and joined in. "You must forgive me, my dear, but there are times when you are too gullible for your own good."

She snorted. "Hmmph. Remind me never to believe another word you say."

Erik stared into the flames, growing more serious. "I never lied to you about...my feelings for you. Nor about your talent. You have a gift, Christine. Don't throw it all away."

"Yes…well," she said, suddenly feeling rather awkward. "…finish your dinner. I think it's starting to rain, and we still have a lot to discuss."

-0-0-0-

It had been an exhausting day. Their hunger satisfied, both Erik and Christine were relaxing by the fire, preparing for sleep. The rain that threatened earlier had held off, but they were concerned that it would come later in the night. As Christine spread out the blanket, she turned to Erik and asked, "What now?"

"I don't understand. We…go to sleep."

Christine laughed, a sweet, beguiling sound. "No silly. I mean…you and me. Us." She noticed Erik's hesitation to reply and invited him to sit next to her. The blanket was warm, and now that the sun was gone, there was a distinct chill to the air. "Do you believe in dreams?" she asked.

Taciturn as always, Erik gave a shrug. It still felt odd, sharing such close quarters with Christine. "As in omens and portents? No. They are nothing more than nonsense used to fleece fools."

"Then I must be foolish." She saw the expression on his face change from puzzlement to concern. "Do you want to know why? Because long ago, before we ever met, I dreamt of you." And she proceeded to tell him about her dream when she was twelve years old, of the mysterious man with the mismatched eyes and the voice of an angel. "I didn't realize until recently that the person in my long-ago dream was you. You and I were meant for one another. What has happened today is merely the final merging of our two destinies."

Erik waved it off, refusing to admit that she may indeed have had a premonition. "Humbug! A childish fantasy, that's all it was. You said yourself that the face in the dream was difficult to make out. Perhaps you only think it was my face you saw. After all, that was many years ago."

"Is that what you think?" she replied playfully. "Well, you're wrong. It was a sign that you and I were meant to marry. That we will marry."

Erik sputtered. "Christine…I…have nothing to offer you. I have lost my ability to sing! My home is gone. My wealth, too! I can barely make music on a nykelharpa!"

"Then we're on equal ground. I have nothing to offer you either, except myself. No buts about it—when we get to Hamburg, you and I are finding a church and a pastor. When we get to Sweden, it will be as husband and wife."

"Sweden?" he repeated stupidly.

"Isn't that what you hinted to Bruguière, that you wanted to go to Sweden so you could be closer to me? How much closer could you be than as my husband?" She stared at him hard, realizing he didn't fully understand. "I love you exactly as you are, Erik."

Now that he was being handed everything he had ever desired, he felt gauche and awkward. "The greatest exception," he whispered, gazing at her fondly.

Off in the distance, thunder rumbled. It looked as though at last their luck had run out. It was going to be a wet night. The fire hissed and sputtered as heavy drops started to fall upon it. Steam rose from the embers amid the bed of coals.

"Well," she said, suppressing a little shiver. "There goes our fire."

Erik turned to her, concerned. "Are you cold?"

She rubbed her upper arms. "A little."

"Here." He draped his great coat around her. "Take my coat. It will keep you warm."

She hugged it tight around her shoulders, shutting her eyes as she inhaled a uniquely masculine scent—Erik's scent. Then she realized that this left Erik with nothing to cover himself. "No…I couldn't…"she started to say, but it felt so soft and comforting that she was reluctant to give it up. She had an idea. "Let's share." She held it open invitingly.

"Quick," he said, sitting next to her. "Close it up, to keep in the heat."

She snuggled in his arms as they sheltered within the relatively dry lean-to, content in their woodland refuge. Soon, the patter of rain lulled Christine to sleep, while Erik kept watch throughout the night.

-0-0-0-


	25. Chapter 25

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 25**

By HDKingsbury & MadLizzy

_"Often I go into some distant region of the world to be reminded of who I really am. There is no mystery about why this should be so. Stripped of your ordinary surroundings, your friends, your daily routines…you are forced into direct experience. Such direct experience inevitably makes you aware of who it is that is having the experience. That is not always comfortable, but it is always invigorating."  
_**~Michael Crichton**

A night had never seemed shorter—or sweeter—than this one. Erik held Christine for hours, ignoring the stiffness in his back and the tingling in his legs as he cradled her in his arms while she slept, blissfully ignorant of his predicament. When the stars began to fade and all hints of danger seemed to have passed, Erik allowed himself to lean to one side and lie down next to Christine, though he remained on the alert for any sign of trouble.

He turned away from the ingenuous girl, so that she would not awaken to his terrible face. Much to his surprise, she draped her arm over his waist and snuggled closer to him in her innocence. Through the thin fabric of her man's sack coat, her every curve beckoned to him, and he cursed himself for his lascivious thoughts.

Half-awake, she began to flex her fingers and toes. Her breath caught in her throat when her hand bumped into a hard object under Erik's wool coat, next to his hip. Curiosity compelled her to explore, so she dragged her fingertips along the round knob of a surface and explored the length of it. It seemed very long, indeed, much too long.

"Would you like to hold it?" Erik asked softly.

A tiny voice replied. "I won't hurt it?"

"Of course not. It's very hard."

"Well…yes…I see. You wouldn't mind?" she meekly asked.

"Not at all." He rolled over on his back so that she could handle it all she wanted.

She giggled at the sight of Erik's walking stick, the silver top of it glinting in the gloaming light. Giggles turned to chuckles, then to peals of laughter.

"What?" Erik asked cluelessly. "What's so funny?"

"Nothing," she responded coyly, a shy blush coloring her rosy cheeks.

He puzzled over her odd behavior, propped up on his elbows, before offering to rekindle the fire. Rain during the night had flooded their little hearth and thoroughly wet all of the wood and kindling they had set nearby.

Christine pouted prettily and smoothed her clothes with her palms. "We'll never start a fire with this. It's too wet." She set about checking the tin cup she'd left out to catch rain water, and offered Erik a sip before drinking any herself.

"Getting the fire started is not the problem," Erik responded. "It's keeping it going." He pulled some lint from his pocket and used the purloined multiplex knife to shave some wood into tinder. Nearby, he had kindling at the ready to stoke the fire, and a few sticks no bigger than his thumb, too. "Now watch closely," he said, a wry grin betraying his own eager anticipation. He drew out a long, dull gray stick from an inner pocket, carved some shavings from it over the tinder, and struck it sharply with the back of the knife blade. Bright orange sparks flew, and white-hot flames licked at the wet sticks.

"How did you do that?" Christine asked, mystified.

He shrugged. "It's magic." His deadpan response belied the childlike smugness that the twinkle in his eyes revealed.

"Really?" She leaned closer, holding her hands out to warm them while Erik fed more wood into the fire.

"Actually its magnesium, but I enjoy watching your expression when you see something you don't understand. It makes me feel like…." He shook his head.

"Like what?" She moved the bent tin cup closer to the fire, wondering if Erik had a tea bag hidden somewhere in his deep pockets.

"I'm not sure. I was about to say, 'young again' but that's not quite it. My youth was not a period I'd care to relive. When I look at you, I feel as though I am starting anew. Fresh. With a blank slate. As though I…you and I, that is…are starting all over again."

"We are starting a new life. Together."

"Are you sure, Christine? I can't help feeling that something awful is going to happen. That you'll change your mind."

"Then we must find the nearest church and be wed as quickly as possible."

Outwardly, Erik was solemn and restrained, but he brimmed with unasked questions.

"That's the only way I'm going to put your fears to rest," Christine chirped happily. "You won't rest until you've put a ring on my finger—I can tell."

He thought back to the emerald and diamond ring he had thrown away and silently cursed his rashness. "I haven't a ring to offer you."

"Then, I'll braid a lock of your hair into a circle and wed you with it. That would suit me, Erik; really it would. I don't want anything fancy."

Memories of the magnificent ring that Raoul had given her flashed in his mind. "Good. You might as well learn it now, Christine. I'm broke." He turned out his pockets to prove they were empty. "I'm not destitute, but we'll have to wire Bruguière to send money. I owe him another book, if we're to have a decent income."

"We're starting anew, remember? I don't expect to live the life of a grand dame. All I want is you and a roof over our heads." She put her hand on his shoulder, and leaned in for a kiss.

Erik beamed. "You didn't like the lean-to?" he asked good-naturedly.

"Loved it," she said sweetly. She meant it with all her heart, but something was puzzling her. "Aren't you going to ask why I am dressed as a ragamuffin?"

He looked her up and down, making note of the boy's clothing she wore. "I'm sure you had your reasons. At least, you're dressed much more appropriately for bareback riding than if you had been wearing a dress." He paused, considering how much was prudent to tell her, and decided that honesty would be the true course. "The fact is, I noticed you…or a boy, rather...several times. You bumped into me on the train. You were at the church in Bremen, crouched down on a pew as I was leaving. If I hadn't been completely absorbed in my own self-pity.... I'm glad it was you, and not the Persian—I mean, not someone bent on doing me harm. But tell me, why didn't you come to me as soon as you found me?"

"I wanted to be certain," she said carefully. "At times, I feel as though I could get lost in you."

"It seems I am the one who lost himself," he replied acerbically.

"Then we should count our blessings that we've found each other, at last." She knelt beside him, and stretched her hands near the flames that licked at the tinder, glad for the spot of warmth in the morning chill.

There were no teabags in Erik's deep pockets, but he found some edible plants and young pine needles, and made a stimulating decoction, which they shared from the battered tin cup. "Nature's best," Erik commented with a wry smile. "Drink up, Christine. You'll need your strength for the journey ahead."

She wrinkled her nose at the cup and gingerly tasted it. "Mmmm! It's not half bad!" she said, much to her surprise.

"This is a far cry from what I would have planned to give you, my dear, but something warm in the belly always lifts the spirits," he told her apologetically, "even if it is only hot water."

-0-0-0-

"What a beautiful day this is—crisp and clear and simply perfect!" Christine held out her arms and twirled around. "Oh, Erik! All those years in Paris have been such a waste. I'd forgotten how much I love the open spaces, and being able to see the horizon without any tall buildings to obstruct the view. Look at that sky!"

Erik wasn't looking at the sky. He was watching Christine! He couldn't take his eyes off her. He handed her an apple filched from a nearby orchard, along with an apology. "Breakfast, my dear. I'm sorry, but this is the best I can do."

She bit into it, oblivious to Erik's gaping stare as she caught a trickle of juice at the corner of her mouth with the tip of her tongue. "Mmm! It's delicious! Better than any pastry, and healthier, too." She frowned. "Aren't you having any?"

He shook his head. "Not hungry." He knew it was a long way to Hamburg, and he was worried about not being able to provide for her. In truth, he was saving his share of the fruit for Christine. Fortunately, she accepted him at his word, but not without gently reminding him to take care of himself.

"You must eat to keep up your strength." She held out her apple and offered him a bite. "It's delicious."

They walked along a low stone wall near the road, Erik ever on the alert for potential threats, until they came across an old dun plow horse in one of the fields. Erik pointed to it, suggesting that they make use of it.

"It wouldn't be much, but it would get us to Hamburg," he explained. It seemed a sensible solution to their problem.

Christine balked. "We can't simply take it. We should find out who it belongs to and see if we can rent it."

Erik made a show of looking around, putting his hand over his brow to shield his eyes from the bright morning sun. "There's no farmhouse in sight. Whoever owns this field must live a good distance away. Besides, we're just borrowing the poor thing. Maybe giving it a new lease on life."

"What do you mean?" There was that frown again.

"Have you taken a good look at that horse? Why, it's one step away from the glue factory!"

Christine scowled. "The horse is old…but not that old." She weighed their dilemma. "You ride. I'll walk. My conscience will feel better that way."

"Suit yourself." Erik found an opening in the fence and with that trusty length of rope he carried with him, made a halter. He led the horse through the opening, close to Christine.

Her resistance faltered slightly as she appraised the draft horse. It appeared sturdy enough, but she was hesitant to take something that didn't belong to her. "I wouldn't feel right...riding it without permission."

Erik seemed indifferent to the dictates of her conscience. "I understand." With a swift jump, he mounted the horse easily and looked at Christine defiantly.

"Erik! You're not really going to..."

"To what? Do what you said?"

Christine stamped her foot impatiently. "Oh! You obstinate man!"

"I can't win, can I? Look, Christine. The beast is a far cry from César. The farmer will never miss it. This old plug has been turned out to pasture. Its plowing days are over, but its back is still strong enough to carry a little slip of a boy like you."

She brushed at her pants and tugged at the man's suit coat she wore. "I do look a fright!"

"If it makes you feel better, when we're settled, I'll send payment." He stared at her a long moment, trying to cipher her thoughts. "With interest."

She returned his intense gaze. "And you'll be sure the horse is well taken care of?"

"Yes," he replied, his growing impatience thinly masked. "Of course. Now get on." He held out a hand to help her up.

"How will you get him back here?" She petted the animal on its muzzle, chuckling to herself when it whisked its lips across her hands, no doubt in response to the smell of apple juice on her palms.

He rolled his eyes. "I'll find him a good home in Hamburg. Someone with children who will pet him and care for him, and bring him carrots every day."

"Oh." She thought it over. "And apples?"

Erik heaved a sigh. "And apples. Lots of them. Enough to make his teeth rot out."

She took a step back. "You needn't be sarcastic."

He extended his hand again. Images of Viking raiders from tales of yore flashed through his mind. Briefly, he wondered how she'd react if he slung her over his shoulder and made off with her. No, he'd tried that once before, and it didn't end well. Better not press his luck. "Just get on!"

"Don't be angry."

"I'm not angry! Why does everyone keep saying that?"

"It's your mask. It's always scowling." She said it as if it were perfectly obvious.

Why hadn't he ever thought of that? "It is not! It's...stern. It's...dignified."

"It's terrifying, and you know it." She folded her arms across her chest, resolute, and her green eyes flashed angrily.

It was official. This was no docile child he was dealing with, but a very opinionated woman—one who must be treated with respect. "Christine," he said in his most persuasive tone of voice, "I would appreciate it if you would do me the honor of riding with me to the next town. If you would prefer to walk, we shall both walk."

A sly grin tweaked her rosebud lips. "Are you asking me to make my choice?"

He laughed in spite of himself. "My dear, your wish is my command. With you by my side, I would walk to the ends of the earth."

"It is an awfully long way to Hamburg," she admitted, weighing walking versus riding all the way. At last, situational ethics won the day. She took Erik's hand, and as he lifted her up, she settled in behind him in on the horse's bare back. Not for the first time during this trip, she was grateful that she was wearing pants. She held on tight as Erik prodded the horse gently with his heels. The adventure was only beginning.

-0-0-0-

From time to time, they would stop to stretch their legs or to water the horse, finding a quiet spot near a creek not too far from the road, but hidden from view. Christine petted the old horse and thanked him for his service. Biscuit, as Christine dubbed him, seemed to be enjoying the attention. The horse nickered and shook his head vigorously. "He likes me," she said happily.

"He likes you a little too well," Erik responded, noting the intensity of the horse's nicker. He led Biscuit to an expanse of sweet grass, so it could graze while he and Christine talked in the shade. Biscuit surprised him by rolling in a patch of clover. "Perhaps he's younger than I thought, or else he's enjoying his vacation. That farmer must have worn him out." He picked a few of the tall grass blossoms and wove them into a crown while he walked back to Christine.

Christine watched as he returned to her, noting his long stride and graceful movements. Every step was sure. His elegant musician's hands handled the tender blossoms with care, and in no time at all, it was as beautiful and as verdant as a bridal crown. She kissed him on the cheek in thanks after he placed it on her head. She spread out his coat for them to sit on. "Tell me about yourself."

He sat next to her, but gazed intently into the distance. "What do you want to know?"

"I want to know all about you. Where were you born? What were your parents' names? Did you go to school? What did you do before I met you?"

The grim line of his mouth twitched. When he spoke, it was with a chilling flatness, devoid of emotion. "The earliest I can remember is being near Rouen. I believe I was born in a house near the village. My parents were…not pleased with me." His chest rose and fell more rapidly, and his speech became halting as the memories became more difficult.

"I'm sorry," Christine began. "You don't have to tell me. I didn't mean to bring up an unpleasant subject."

"No," he said sternly. "You deserve to know what you're getting into." He swallowed hard before continuing. "I was very young, and was ill-prepared to be on my own. I lived like a feral child, approaching farm houses at night, stealing what I needed to survive."

"Why didn't you ask someone for help? Surely a kind woman would have taken you in, cared for you."

A derisive scoff was his response. He pointed to his face. "If you think I'm ugly now, imagine what I looked like as a child. It's bad enough for a grown man, but a child … It … I … wasn't …natural. Most people thought I was diseased. Some thought I was…not human. 'Devil' is not the worst name I've been called."

She shuddered, and caressed his hand with her fingertips while he spoke, stroking it with gentle circles.

"I'd always had a talent for tricks, and as the seasons changed and cold weather set in, I learned how to market my talent. I became a street performer. Eventually, I used my accursed ugliness as part of my show. In fact, it became the main attraction." He lowered his head. "I'd do magic tricks, and as the audience gathered, I'd begin to sing. That's when I learned how to mesmerize a crowd of people. If I'd wanted, I could have taken every cent they had. All I wanted, however, was a few coins for my efforts. And I got it. Once the price had been paid, I'd take off my mask and show them what they really came to see. The monster who sang like an angel! That's all they wanted"

"What did you want, Erik?" she asked in a tiny voice.

"I wanted to…make something of myself. I wanted to be an architect. There's nothing more permanent than stone, Christine. Taste in music changes, and compositions are forgotten, but stone lasts. You've seen some of my sculptures, and you've seen the opera house. Even though my name is not associated with it, it's mine, Christine. I built it with my own two hands—not that anyone will ever know—but it was never about fame. It was about permanence. I wanted something to remain after…after I'm gone."

"It's a good thing you stayed there, after it was finished," she said brightly, hoping to lighten his mood. "After all, we might never have met if you hadn't."

"If I hadn't carved a home out of the store rooms in the fifth cellar, you mean. I stayed because it was a place where I could hide from the world."

"Hide? Why would you want to do that?"

"It's a long story. Are you sure you want to hear it?"

"Biscuit is enjoying his break, and I'm enjoying hearing you talk. Please, tell me more."

"Before I met you, I thought I was very different from other men; but then I saw you, I heard you, and I fell in love with you—like every other man who's ever met you. In my youth, as you were touring the countryside with your father, I was trying to unravel the mystery of who I really was. I believed that by going into some distant region of the world, I should find the answer. I'd be stripped of my ordinary surroundings, of everything familiar to me. I hungered for knowledge, to learn whether there might be someone…like me…out there."

She squeezed his hand. "You were lonely. I remember when I came to the opera, how lonely I was. You sang me to sleep at night."

He nodded absent-mindedly, absorbed by memories of his past. "I worked half-way across the world as a magician. I became renowned. My fame brought me to the attention of the Shah of Persia, who commanded my presence at court. In return for my tricks, he gave me the chance to study architecture, and to build. In no time at all, I was combining my skills as a magician and as a mason. I made secret passageways for the Shah's personal use…and a few trapdoors of my own, to come and go as I pleased. I knew it might be in my best interests to keep a few tricks up my sleeve. After all, a magician never reveals his secrets." He paused, gathering his thoughts. "And then there was the mirrored room…."

This sounded familiar. "A mirrored room? Like a dressing room?" she asked.

"No, Christine," he said wearily. "Not at all. It was a deathtrap."

-0-0-0-

"My contraption had been designed for illusions, but the Persians are geniuses at taking technology and 'improving' upon it. The Shah's scientists—at his command—took my invention and turned it into a torture chamber. I fled Persia when I realized I was being used." He threw down the grass straw he'd been fiddling with and twining nervously between his fingers. "No doubt, I'd have been the next victim. The Shah was no fool. It wasn't prudent to keep men around who knew too much. They had a way of disappearing."

She leaned her head on his shoulder, grounding him as he began a dark journey into his past.

"While wandering the continent, I fell in with gypsies. I'd been a traveling performer, so the arrangement seemed logical. It was mutually beneficial, very profitable for all parties. Winter was fast approaching, and they could provide me with shelter and a kind of security that I needed at the time, while I could attract well-heeled crowds willing to pay well to be entertained. The gypsies were willing to overlook their native superstitions for the thrill of purses bulging with gold and silver coins. But something happened; maybe the gypsies became fearful of this strange living corpse with the voice of an angel, or it could be that they feared losing the income should I decide to disappear one night. It might have been that the full scope of my talents was beginning to sink in their dull brains, and they feared I would turn on them. Whatever the reason, I ended up being their prisoner." He patted her hand comfortingly when Christine gasped at this revelation.

"One night, my food was drugged and I was overpowered. I awoke the next day in one of the cages built for an exotic beast of some sort. They not only put me in a cage; they welded the iron bars shut. There was no way out. It was built atop a wagon, so that I would never need to be let out. They'd simply drive the wagon to the next fair, with me inside it, like an animal." He inhaled deeply, as though catching a scent. "To this day, I remember the smell of it, musky and dank like some great jungle cat."

Christine blinked away angry tears. The thought of her Erik being treated this way was infuriating. "Bastards!"

"My captivity lasted for…months…maybe longer. If I refused to perform, ice cold water was thrown on me in the dead of winter. The very real threat of starvation and hypothermia forced me to perform. After a while, a man begins to forget…that he is…real. He begins to believe what others say about him. I often wondered if I'd lost my mind." He looked her straight in the eye. "Gypsy camps are well guarded, Christine, and so great was the gypsies' fear of me that I was never left with less than three watchmen. Even with my powers, it is difficult to persuade more than one man at a time to go against his better judgment. So I bided my time, knowing that one day, I'd have a chance to escape. It happened in Paris, at the harvest fair ten years ago."

"So long ago…." She pondered the meaning of it.

He ignored her. "The gypsies watched me closely, but there were times when their attention faltered. They knew better than to let me sing other than during performances, fearing I would mesmerize them, but theirs is a hard life. Sometimes, after a hard day, my guards would fall asleep from exhaustion. Whenever I had the chance, I tore at the floorboards of the wagon, trying to create a trap door. By day, I'd use the filthy straw they gave me to sleep on to hide my work. It was easy enough to hide it from them. It wasn't as though they ever let me out to clean the cage!" He laughed that terrible laugh of his, the one that made her skin crawl.

"I waited ages and ages until my chance finally came. One, two floorboards were pried up, and I squeezed through them, dropped to the ground, and froze, waiting for the alarm. But nothing happened! I was free! Keeping low and concealing myself as much as possible, I made my way from the confines of the fairgrounds. I would have been home free, had it not been for…." He seemed a little crazed by the memory of it. "Olly olly oxen free!" he said snidely.

"There was a boy. He'd gotten up in the night for some foolish reason or another, and as I was making my way through the camp, I came upon him. He screamed and ran from me. A shot rang out! Christine, I can still hear it whizzing past my ear! And there was blood! Blood everywhere!"

"Were you shot?" she asked, alarmed. She ran her hands over his chest, as if to reassure herself that he was all right.

He nodded automatically. "I wasn't hit. It was the child, Christine. The boy! The guard's aim was wide. He shot the boy in the back as he ran from me."

"Oh, Erik! That's awful! But it isn't your fault!"

"That's not what the gypsies told the gendarmes. Soon, the news was all over Paris. "Circus monster escapes! Innocent child killed! Track down this murderer! He must be found!" I hid in…terrible places, Christine. Alleys, sewers…anywhere!"

"And then you found the opera house?"

"It was under construction, so it was easy enough for me to slip inside under cover of darkness. There, I found everything I needed to survive. I had warm clothes for the first time in….I can't remember how long I was in that cage, Christine. You don't know what it…does to a man…to be…." He wiped away his own tears. "It didn't have to be that way. All I ever wanted was to be like any other man. Instead, I hid from them, far away from their gawking eyes and their suspicion. Why do people always assume the worst of me, Christine? Why?" His anguish was heartbreaking. "I was sick of living. It was clear that I'd never find a place where I could simply be left alone. If it hadn't been for Giry, I might have ended it all right then."

"Mme Giry? She told me that you helped her…that you and she became partners."

This change of subject distracted him from the brutal memory of his past. "It was a matter of practicality," he offered. "She needed someone to keep the hounds at bay, and I needed money."

"After you left, she told me the story of how you…earned your income."

"It was a simple matter of economics. I gave her a percentage of my 'salary' each month." He noticed the surprised expression she wore. "What, you don't think a ballet mistress makes enough money to live the way she does, do you? Have you ever taken notice of her clothes, for instance?"

"I noticed that her clothes are black. I do believe the woman is in perpetual mourning for the late Jules Giry."

Erik cocked an eyebrow at her. "Her widow's weeds also happen to be very expensive, and decorated with beadwork and other fripperies."

"But still, two thousand francs is a lot of money. I wonder the managers put up with you for so long."

"Believe me," he said with a sneer, "they can afford it. " Have you any idea where they really make their money?"

"Subscriptions, I suppose. Contracts. Ticket sales?" she asked hopefully.

Erik laughed. "Those two crooks made me look like an amateur. Between them, they skimmed more than twice the amount of money from the government subsidies than I asked of them. They falsified their books to cover up how deeply they lined their own pockets – most of it at the taxpayers' expense. I was merely reminding them of the error of their ways."

"I know the contents of the ledgers that freed you. Andre and Firmin were embezzlers."

"True. They took from the government, from the patrons, from the contractors…from anyone who had anything worth taking. They became rich doing it. Think of me as a Parisian version of Robin Hood. I robbed from them and gave to Poor Erik. "

"How altruistic of you to help correct the situation," she said, pulling away from him.

"I never said I was a good man." He reached out to her. "But Christine, there's something else you should know. I gave back the money that I took from them. Most of it, anyway."

It was her turn to scoff. "Why would you do that?"

"It was never about the money, Christine. It was about the power. I enjoyed the feeling of controlling them, of making them do what I wanted."

Her voice cracked. "They way you tried to control me?"

"I was…wrong…to try to make you…love me." He reached for her hands, and sighed with relief when she let him hold them. "I promise you, my darling, I will only ever be your obedient servant from this day forth. I have learned my lesson, and I will make every effort to restore your faith in me. I'll prove that you've made the right choice in pledging yourself to me. You won't regret it, Christine! I swear!"

"Say you love me, Erik. Please say it. I need to hear the words."

"I love you Christine. Now and always." He profaned her angelic lips with his monstrous ones, covering her hands, her neck, her face with _baci molto piccoli_—many tiny kisses—until he felt her relax in his arms.

It took every ounce of her willpower, but with a gentle push on his chest, she stopped him. "I'm yours, Erik: Never doubt me." She pointed to Biscuit, who had sauntered over to them and was nosing Christine's hand in hopes of another apple. "We'd better hurry to Hamburg. First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes—"

He was enraged by the childish rhyme. "No!" he said angrily. "There will be no children, Christine." He turned away from her and whispered an explanation so quietly she barely heard him. "I can't be a father."

-0-0-0-


	26. Chapter 26

**To Be Loved**  
**Chapter 26**

By HDKingsbury and MadLizzy

_"I was benevolent and good -- misery made me a fiend. Make me happy, and I shall again be virtuous." _  
Mary Shelley, _Frankenstein  
_  
-0-0-0-

The trip to Hamburg began in uncomfortable silence. Erik put Christine in front of him on Biscuit's back, and she rested against him as he put his arms around her to reach the make-shift reins. They rode for a while, both tense and eager to avoid the subject of children. Ultimately, Christine couldn't stand the silence a moment longer, but when she tried to draw Erik out as to what he meant by his cryptic remark about not having children, he was reluctant to say more, and apologized awkwardly for bringing up an inappropriate topic. "I should never have broached the subject. It is not something a gentleman says to a lady."

"Oh, Erik. You can be so stubborn and foolish sometimes. Why shouldn't we discuss this matter? We're to be married." A thought struck her. What if he didn't mean that he didn't want to have children, but that he could not? Might there be something physically wrong with him that extended beyond his face? Bringing that up as a topic of conversation could be tricky, though. Fortunately, she was saved from inquiring further by Erik.

"I can't be a father. The very idea is ridiculous. Can you imagine me, with an infant?"

Now she knew. It had to do with worries of not being a good parent that troubled him. "Can't be a father, or don't want to be?" She thought of the many tender moments they'd shared when she'd been naïve and believed in Angels of Music. "As a matter of fact, I think you'd be a fine father."

Erik shook his head sadly. "I have no patience for children. You've seen it yourself. I lose my temper easily and do things that are…unforgiveable. At times, I can be a brute."

"You are much too harsh on yourself. Yes, you've made mistakes. We all have. But there's more to you than that." He appeared to be resolute, but she pressed on boldly in hope that he would waver. "Shall I tell you how I see you?"

Erik turned his head and glared at her with jaded eyes. "Go ahead."

She ignored the look, and went on. "For starters, you are painstaking and infinitely logical when it comes to your plans." When she saw him nod, she went on. "As my maestro, you displayed endless patience with me and my fumbling attempts to learn those difficult pieces I was sure I would never master. You have a sense of humor, and were most amusing when it came to playing tricks on the ballet rats." She tried not to smirk when she saw the look of surprise on his face. "Oh, don't deny it. I heard all about the time you put sugarplums under their pillows on Christmas Eve." She put a gentle hand on his arm. "You have much to offer any child. You already know stories from all over the world, and can soothe even the most restless spirit with your music. Did you know that I watched you in Bremen with that boy, the one you kept from stealing? Your actions speak louder than your words. I have confidence in you, even if you do not. I believe you would make a wonderful papa...if you only allowed yourself the chance."

"Where was my patience that night I dragged you off the stage and to my lair?" he asked, not ready to give in.

"What lair? You had a home, Erik, like any man. Not some animal's den." She let that sink in before adding, "Besides, I maintain that I went willingly. Neither of us was at our best that night."

"That's putting it mildly." He considered what she was saying, but still was not convinced. "I have a bad feeling about this. But what of you? Do you want children? More to the point, would you want a child of mine?"

"Is that what this is really about? Whether a child of ours might look like you?"

"It is a very real concern, Christine. Think about it. No matter how much you or I would love the child, if it has my appearance, it faces a world of intolerance and hatred. We might be able to control what goes on within our own household, but we do not have that kind of influence on the outside world. Sooner or later, our child would encounter harsh realities."

Christine knew he had a valid point. "I haven't given it much thought. I mean…we aren't even married yet. But how do we know this would even happen? Our child, or children, could just as likely be born with ordinary looks. Or…maybe I would never conceive at all. I do know one thing, though."

"And that is?"

"That I want you." She glanced over her shoulder in time to catch the small grin that flickered across his face, and she knew at once he was putty in her delicate hands. Triumph flooded her veins, and she put her hands over his as he guided the horse on the road to Hamburg.

-0-0-0-

Later in the week, Erik and Christine were enjoying a little bit of lunch on the side of the road. Once they had become certain that Udo and Horst had not taken it into their heads to follow them, they took their time as they made their way paralleling the Hamburg route. Both found themselves enjoying this newfound freedom, and they managed to eat quite well. The autumn crops were coming in, and between "borrowing" the occasional fruits and vegetables from untended gardens and fields and trapping small game for the cook pot, there was no way either would go hungry. It may not have been grand fare, but it was satisfying and filling.

As they neared the outskirts of Hamburg, the gently rolling farmlands were giving way to more populous settlements filled with houses and market squares. Contrary to what he had indicated previously, he was not completely penniless. With these spare coins Erik had been husbanding, they were able to purchase foodstuffs to supplement their menu, including freshly baked dark breads and zesty cheeses and some oats for Biscuit. It was hard to imagine that, less than two weeks ago, they had both been in Paris. It seemed like a lifetime had passed since then.

They made inquiries as to how far they had to go before reaching Hamburg, and were happy to learn that their destination was perhaps half a day's journey ahead. The weather remained kind, with no rain since that first night, and the two of them enjoyed the gentle breezes and the warm temperatures. Freckles dusted Christine's cheeks and nose, and Erik thought he'd never seen anything lovelier. As they sat eating, a young boy and girl came out of nowhere and approached cautiously.

The boy appeared to be about ten years old with fair hair and complexion. The girl was similarly colored, with her hair done up in braids. She looked to be a little younger than the boy, around eight years old. Their clothes were simple homespun, the kind one would expect to find a farmer's family wearing.

"May we pet your horse?" the boy asked, eyeing Biscuit with delight.

"What have we here?" Erik murmured under his breath. "Hansel and Gretel?"

Christine gently nudged Erik in the ribs. "Be nice, or I'll have the wicked witch turn you into a gingerbread boy." She turned her attention to the children. "Hello there. My name is Christian, and this is my uncle, Erik." She choked on a laugh that tried to come out as she saw the scowl forming on Erik's face, and whispered back to him, "Now is your chance to demonstrate what a wonderful papa you can be."

The little boy took a couple of tentative steps closer. "My name is Konrad," he said, "and this is my sister, Bertha." Bertha smiled.

"Where do you live?" asked Christine.

Konrad pointed. "Up there. Bertha and I were out playing and saw your horse. Our father has told us that one day, he will buy us a horse. One that is gentle and will allow us to ride him and pull our little cart for us."

Erik was still leery of the children, and kept expecting them to run away any time, now that they had they had seen his masked face; but instead of fear, he was amazed to see only mild curiosity. "I suppose you're wondering why I keep half of my face covered," he said, startling Christine with his question.

Bertha shook her head. "You must have injured it," she said, quite confident in her assessment.

Erik was pleasantly surprised. "Why…yes. You're right."

"Does it hurt?" Konrad asked.

"Not anymore." Erik paused to consider something, looking over at Christine, and then asking the children, "Do you want to see a trick?" Christine smiled her approval and invited the children to sit with her while Erik performed some small magic tricks, much to the children's delight.

"And you said you have no patience with children," he heard her say, but pretended to ignore her. Once the impromptu show concluded, Erik asked the children, "So, do you think your father might be interested in buying Biscuit?" This would be a perfect solution. They were far enough away from Bremen that it was unlikely Biscuit's owner would come looking for him all the way here; plus, it seemed highly unlikely he would even care. No doubt, the farmer who had put the horse out to pasture figured good riddance to the horse. It was a shame, however, that the owner who'd neglected the poor beast couldn't see it now, couldn't see what a week of proper care and diet had done for Biscuit. Oh well, that was the farmer's loss, not Biscuit's!

Obviously the offer met with the children's approval as they jumped up and down for joy. "Would you be willing to sell him, sir? Really?"

"As a matter of fact, my nephew and I were hoping to find the horse a good home when we got to Hamburg," said Erik as Christine nodded in agreement. Erik put the children on Biscuit's back so he judge for himself how the horse would take to them. It was a match made in heaven, and the children rode home, with Erik and Christine walking beside them. At the farmhouse, quick introductions were made. Erik explained that he and his 'nephew' were making their way to Sweden and couldn't take the horse with them, and they were looking for a good home.

The farmer's wife joined in the discussion. Before long, a price was agreed upon, and Biscuit had a new home. Bertha and Konrad hugged their mother and father, then ran up to Erik and hugged him, too, much to his chagrin. Good-byes were said, and Erik and Christine resumed their journey on foot.

"I think that family will be good to Biscuit, don't you?" Christine asked.

Erik had to agree. "Did you see the eyes of those children light up? I doubt Biscuit will ever pull anything heavier than a light wagon."

"Yes, their father said that he'd been looking for a well-trained horse for their use."

They were nearing a small village near the outskirts of Hamburg. It was late in the day. "What do you say we spend the night here?" Erik asked, pointing to a neat little inn a few yards up the road. "I don't know about you, but I wouldn't mind a hot bath and a soft bed tonight."

"Oh, that sounds good. Shall we share a room? It would be more economical." Erik wasn't so sure the room sharing was a good idea, but Christine was persistent. "I mean, look at me," she said, indicating her clothing. "You could pretend to be my father!"

Erik snorted. "I may be old, but I'm not that old!"

-0-0-0-

Inside the inn was a beehive of activity. The public room was filled with garrulous farmers enjoying a hearty meal and a stein or two of good beer. Erik looked around and caught the attention of the landlord.

"We'd like two rooms," he said.

The innkeeper, a stout man of some fifty years with grizzled hair and large handlebar mustaches, shook his head and stroked his neatly trimmed beard. "I'm sorry, Mein Herr, but I am afraid we are filled up. I have no rooms."

"None at all?" Christine asked, her disappointment obvious.

"I am afraid so. Tomorrow is market day, and all the rooms are taken." He nodded toward the crowd.

"Is there another inn nearby?" asked Erik.

"_Nein_. We are a small village. Ours is the only inn. You might find one up the road in the next village."

"And how far is that?"

"An hour, maybe two if you're riding."

Christine frowned. "We're on foot."

"Is there a problem, Johan?" The landlady had entered the room, a basket of clean laundry in her arms.

"It is nothing, Gerte. These two gentlemen are seeking a room for the night, and I was explaining that we have none to let."

"Where is your hospitality, husband of mine? Do you want these good people to spread the word that we could not provide them shelter for the night?" She spoke to Erik and Christine. "If you don't mind close quarters, we can let you have one of the attic rooms for the night."

Johan gaped at his wife. "The attic? But…those rooms are for storage."

Gerte gave her husband an offended look. "They are perfectly clean." She turned to Erik and Christine. "And it isn't as if this is a man and woman we'd have sharing the room."

The two of them exchanged glances, and it was all Christine could do to prevent herself from giggling.

"The next inn is at least another hour from here," the landlady continued.

"Well, if that's all you have…" Erik said, considering the possibility of sharing the room with Christine. After all, they had been traveling together for the better part of a week, and nothing untoward had happened. "We were hoping for a bath, though."

The landlady grimaced. "I can't offer you a room with a bath, but I'll see that hot water is sent up so you can wash up. And I'll make up a couple of clean pallets for the two of you to sleep on. The room isn't that crowded," she said, throwing Johan a critical look. "You might want to move things around a bit, mostly old pieces of furniture and pieces of luggage that were left behind and never claimed."

"Ja, ja," Johan said to his wife. "I'll go up and get things in order while you get our guests some supper." He trudged up the stairs and headed for the attic.

Gerte grinned at the two and directed them to the crowded public room. She showed them to a booth in the back. "I'll be right back with some nice hasenpfeffer," she said, and headed to the kitchen.

"When we get to Hamburg," Christine said quietly, "I want a real meal, not another way to prepare rabbit."

Even Erik had to laugh at that. "But I thought you liked it."

"I do, but after a steady diet of it most of this week, I'm ready for a change."

"I admit it; I am, too. So, you are honestly enjoying yourself? You don't miss the bright lights of Paris?"

"Not in the least. I'd forgotten how much I love the country. City life is good, but there is something special about getting back in touch with Nature. What is it that Heinrich Heine said? _Like a great poet, Nature knows how to produce the greatest effects with the most limited means. _Who needs a lot when you've got Nature to provide for you?"

Erik was going to offer more on the subject, but just then the landlady brought two bowls of stew and set them down on the table. "I'll be right back with your beers," she said, leaving Erik and Christine to sample the stew.

"I have to say, this is better than anything I ever cooked," Erik said.

Christine chuckled. "That's only because you're hungry."

-0-0-0-

Despite being used as a storage area, the attic room was cozy. Boxes, crates, furniture, and pieces of luggage were stacked up very neat and tidy, leaving room enough for the two of them to sleep in comfort. They explored a little, and found extra bedding in an old dresser; sheets, plates, and an assortment of odds and ends not wanted at the moment were also found, items that the owners were loathe to get rid of. Though the days were warm, the nights had been cool, and the extra blankets would feel good.

Their quarters for the night were clean, if snug. "Mind your head," Christine warned, cautioning him about the low-hanging rafters, but he was already hunched over to avoid a nasty bump.

A clerestory window along the roofline offered ventilation but scarce light. Once the sun had gone down, the room became cloaked in darkness, so Erik lit a couple of tallow candles the landlord had provided them.

"This is rather fun," Christine said, enjoying the candles and their homey glow.

With the length of rope he always seemed to have handy, Erik strung up a clothesline on which they could hang their clothes after washing them out. Christine hunted through the furniture and pulled out a somewhat battered dressing screen. "We can have a little privacy when we wash," she explained.

A knock on the door alerted them that the landlady was outside with hot water. Soon, they were taking turns behind the screen, stripping down and luxuriating in getting clean all over. Through the use of an extra couple of coins, Gerte made a second and even third trip up to the attic with additional buckets of hot water so that not only would bodies be clean, but clothes, too. With no change of clothes, Erik and Christine made use of some extra towels and a spare sheet they found in one of the trunks, winding the cloth around their bodies until they looked like South Sea Islanders in a Gauguin painting. Who cared that the sheet was threadbare in places, or that the towels had a few holes in them? They were clean and that's all that mattered. Soon, stockings and unmentionables hung from the makeshift clothesline.

Wrapped comfortably in warm towels, Erik and Christine sat sponging the dirt of the road off their outer clothes and hanging these to air out, too. Erik groaned at the sight of a tiny smudge on the edge of his mask. "I was really hoping for a bath," he fussed. He held the mask at arm's length and frowned at it before setting it on the edge of a table to dry.

Christine laughed. "We both were getting a little ripe…but the soap and hot water helped. Now that I'm clean and fed, I feel like a new woman."

He frowned, feeling guilty for failing meet Christine's needs. After all, he was supposed to provide for her, to support her, and yet their lives had begun in near poverty. "Tomorrow, we will stay in a proper inn…with a proper bath," Erik promised. "And clean clothes."

"I wish I had a brush," Christine said, oblivious to his worrying. She began taking down her hair down and combing through it with her fingers.

"You're in luck!" Erik exclaimed, finding one in a dresser drawer. It was missing some bristles, but would suffice. "Shall I?" he offered, and with brush in hand stood behind her as she sat on a stool. He worked the bristles through the tangles in her hair carefully, trying to avoid pulling unnecessarily on the knots in her her reddish-gold tresses.

"Oh, you have no idea how good that feels," she purred, letting out a little moan of pleasure.

"You must let me know if I'm tugging too hard. I have no experience as a lady's maid," he said with a chuckle. Then, more seriously, "I wouldn't wish to cause you pain."

She leaned back and rested against him. "Don't worry, you're doing fine. In fact, I'll give you until tomorrow morning to stop."

He continued his ministrations, and Christine thought she heard him mumbling.

"What did you say?"

"I'm counting. I've heard that a lady brushes her hair with one hundred strokes to bring out its beauty and luster."

"And you tell me you have no experience as a lady's maid," she laughed.

Once he was satisfied with the results, he set down the brush and began to massage her neck and shoulders, letting his musician's fingers tease the tension from her tired muscles. He smiled as her arms relaxed, knowing she had given herself over completely to the pleasant sensation he had created.

The sheet she had wound about herself had slipped, and the sight of her bosom rising and falling with each breath she took was maddening. He dared to run the back of his hand down the length of her arms, smiling when she shivered with delight at his touch.

Moments earlier, he had been exhausted from their idyll. Christine had yawned sleepily and chatted about being happy to be back in civilization. He'd only been thinking of her comfort; but seeing her this way—and hearing her sigh for him--was too irresistible. He bent over her and kissed her brow tenderly. She tilted her head upwards, giving him access to her lips, and closed her eyes expectantly.

It was everything he'd ever hoped for, this promise of love! Christine wanted him as much as he needed her! He moistened his mouth with the tip of his tongue and leaned down to claim her love.

As he did so, a movement caught his attention. There, in the corner of the room, was an old cheval mirror. A long crack down the left side of it fragmented Erik's reflection. His own image was revolting, dredging up demonic images from ancient lands that he knew only too well. Beside it was Christine's flawless image, haunting in its consummate beauty.

This was wrong, this base desire for her. He was wrong. He was born a devil, and he'd die one. How could she bear his touch? Had his need for her blinded his judgment, or bled into her of its own accord? Had he mesmerized her without knowing it?

She opened her eyes and saw him, apparently frozen with fear. "What's wrong?" she whispered.

He blinked and turned away from her, holding a hand over the ugly scar that ran down his left arm as though he were shielding it from view. "It's late," he strained to say. "We'd best get some rest." He held his hand out to assist her, but he would not look at her. He kept his head turned aside so that she could not see the hideous part of it.

Christine sat on the edge of the pallet and held his hand longer than necessary. "You must be exhausted," she said softly. "Won't you lie down with me?"

He hesitated, torn between doubt and desire. "I think I'll stay up a while and…read this book." He picked up a discarded tome in Old German and leafed through it. The first illustration showed a demon being burned at the stake, angry villagers rejoicing at the sight. The creature howled in agony and contorted its body in unnatural ways to avoid the flames. He thought the beast bore a remarkable resemblance to himself.

"Come here," Christine begged gently. "I've grown used to having you beside me. I can't sleep unless you're next to me."

Like a condemned man walking the plank, Erik went to her side. He turned his back to her and perched on the edge of the pallet without touching her, as far away from her as he could get.

"Have I done something wrong?" she whispered. "Are you angry with me?"

He shook his head, and put out the last of the lit candles with a wave of his hand. "Sleep, Christine," he said pleasantly, "and have sweet dreams."

Soon, when the slow and regular sound of her breathing assured him of her sleep, Erik allowed himself to lie down beside her. He hoped he wouldn't dream tonight. Images of Christine always filled his dreams, which only confused him.

-0-0-0-

The pallet made by the innkeeper in their attic room was soft and warm in comparison to sleeping on leaves and grass under an open sky, and both slept well throughout the night, back-to-back. The next morning, Christine listened, half-awake, to Erik's steady breathing. In his sleep, he turned towards her and draped an arm across her waist, pulling her close to him.

With only a thin blanket between them, she felt every ripple of his muscled form. She remembered catching glimpses of his wiry body as they'd bathed, and he held her tight against his taut stomach, his hand spread out across her womb protectively, and rested his repulsive cheek along the side of her head, cushioned by her clean hair. He inhaled deeply, catching her natural scent, and muttered her name in his sleep. She smiled and nestled against him, but stopped short when something hard poked her in the small of the back.

That was no walking stick.

She wiggled in his arms, and rolled over so she could see him in the dim, pre-dawn light. He opened his eyes groggily. "Are you all right?" he asked in a sleepy voice. He glanced around the room furtively, reassuring himself that there was no danger.

"Hold me," she whispered. She ran a hand up his arm and across his shoulder as she snuggled her face into his bare chest. She did not miss the rumble in his throat when she pushed her entire length against him, and smiled with satisfaction.

He bent his hips to prevent her from noticing the obvious, but it was too late. "Chris—" he began. "I…am not known for self-restraint. If you keep doing that…God…that feels…heavenly."

She felt safe with Erik, and explored his body as if it were her own. "Shhh," she said, putting a finger to his lips. "You belong to me." She placed his hand on her breast and moved it in a circular fashion, watching his eyes widen as she woke him with a new sensation of utter pleasure.

The thin sheet did not obscure the marbled nipple, hard beneath his palm. He lowered his head and kissed the side of her neck. She purred with delight when he traced the hollow of her throat with his tongue, and encouraged him to explore. "I ache for you," she murmured.

His swollen member throbbed when she spoke, reacting to the susurration of her voice. Half-asleep, he was defenseless against her charms. "I want you, too. You can see that," he chuckled, with a nod towards the evidence. He clasped his hand over her mouth when she giggled a little too loudly. "The whole house will hear us," he warned.

She nipped at his fingers playfully. "Let them," she replied wantonly. "They'll say, 'those damned Frenchies. What are they up to now?'"

He looked away from her reluctantly. "One of us has to show some self-control. You'd never forgive me if I…if we…like this…on some pallet in the attic of a stranger's home. Besides, you're supposed to be my nephew."

The very idea of it made Christine titter, but the stirring of someone in the kitchen below sealed their fate. The clinking of pots and pans indicated that the inn would soon be bustling with activity. "We'd best be getting dressed and on our way," Christine said—with more than a hint of regret.

She sat up, taking the sheet with her, and saw the upright mirror in the corner. "A mirror! How did I miss that last night?" she said innocently. A glimmer of playfulness crossed her emerald eyes, and she began to tease him. "Imagine! If you had stood behind it and called to me, I would not have been able to resist you, Erik. Like old times!"

He did not laugh. He stood behind the dressing screen and pulled on his damp clothes.

"What if I stand behind it and speak to you? 'Come to me, my Angel of Music.' Or better yet, 'My Angel of Hassenpfeffer.'"

Still no response. This was troubling.

"Erik? Are you…having second thoughts?" She tightened her make-shift sarong. The silence was beginning to frighten her. "Do you no longer want me?"

His reaction was terrifying. Instantly, he was at her side, trembling with anger and standing as tall as he could in the cramped quarters. "No longer want you? You foolish child! Erik is sick with love for you. He will always want Christine!"

She shrank away involuntarily, but she knew better than to act this way when Erik was spiraling towards a black despair. She got hold of herself and spoke sternly to him. "What's come over you? You're frightening me."

He blanched, retreated behind the dressing screen, and sank to his knees as he came to his senses. "Forgive me," he begged, repeating the words over and over, muttering words of abject sorrow. He began to weep.

"Oh, my darling," she cried, and she put her arms over his shaking shoulders. She rested her head atop his, letting her long, loose hair fall over his back. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to test you so this morning," she murmured soothingly. "This past week has been…difficult…for both of us."

"You don't understand," he said haltingly. "I've never had a friend. Never had anyone to…share my life. I don't know how to behave," he sobbed. "And I'm half-mad with unspeakable, _craven _urges. You should leave me, Christine, before I make you hate me for the rest of your life. You must!"

"I'm not leaving you, Erik. I'm marrying you and we're going to settle down in Sweden..and…and that's all there is to it! You're lovesick, that's all. Once we're married—"

"How can you say that?" he cried.

"I can say that because I know you. You've never done anything but put my needs and desires ahead of your own, and I resent that you said you've never had a friend. I'm you're your friend, Erik!" She was angry now, and let it show. "Don't you see? You're the best friend I've ever had."

"God, Christine! I'm so…broken and ashamed. I wish…I wish I could be the kind of man you deserve."

"You are the man I want," she said, kissing his terrible face. "Now, pull yourself together. That snoopy innkeeper will be here any moment, calling us down for breakfast."

Slowly, he reached for a washcloth and began to dab his face with it. "I can't eat…not at a table with…other people. They hate…the wretched." He said it with chilling matter-of-factness.

"Then we'll ask Gerte to bring it to us, or I will bring it up myself. I won't have you eating alone any more. You've spent far too much time hiding where the world could never find you." Reassured that he was snapping out of this dangerous spell, she began to pull her clothes together. "Come along, sir. It's my turn to hide behind the screen." She changed places with Erik, and turned the mirror around discreetly, cursing under her breath when it creaked despite her carefulness.

When she had pinned her hair tight against her head and resumed her disguise as a boy, she stepped gingerly into the attic and looked hopefully at her fiancé. "There," she said. "How's this?"

He was subdued, but made an effort. He put his hands on his hips and looked her up and down. "Frighteningly convincing. I can't wait to see you in a dress again." He donned the mask, appearing more confident once it was secure.

She glanced at him slyly, an idea forming in her mind. "What if we make a picnic of our breakfast, and hurry on to Hamburg? The sooner we leave, the sooner we'll be married."

Ah. There it was, the brightness that had faded from his eyes had returned. It was Hope, rekindled. "Christine?" he asked awkwardly. "You really believe I am benevolent and good?"

"Of course I do. I know it."

"A long time ago, abject misery made me the monster I was. But if you believe in me, I can be…worthy. If I cannot be a good man, I shall at least be virtuous. It is little enough to offer you."

She smiled reassuringly at him, and kissed him directly on his gruesome mouth, oblivious to its disfigurement. "Little enough to offer? It is everything, my love. Remember: Today, we are closer than ever to our new life. We will be happy."

He bowed and swept the air with his hand, ushering her through the door. "How can I not be happy, with you by my side?"

-0-0-0-


	27. Chapter 27

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 27**

By MadLizzy and HDKingsbury

-0-0-0-

_And ruin'd love, when it is built anew,  
Grows fairer than at first, more strong, far greater._  
**~ Shakespeare**

The Free and Hanseatic City of Hamburg was not as old as Paris, but it had a rich and storied history nonetheless. Nestled on the high ground between two rivers—the Alster and the Elbe providing access to the Baltic Sea—it had grown from a fortified castle built by Charlemagne into a bustling metropolis, a hub of transportation, filled with commerce and warehouses.

On the streets could be heard a profusion of dialects, a blending of High and Low German. Plain clothed _tagelöhner_, day laborers from the poorest classes, rubbed elbows with smartly dressed businessmen. Country lasses in brightly colored vests and full-skirted dirndls came to market to sell their goods as society ladies wearing the latest of fashions passed by, leaving such purchases to servants who would haggle over the prices. The ringing of bells in the many churches competed to be heard over the clip-clop of horse-drawn trams, carts and carriages.

Hamburg was, in short, a blend of the old and the new. The Altstadt, or Old Town—what was left of the original medieval settlement—had once been a warren of narrow, twisting streets and alleys, but much of that had disappeared in the Great Fire of 1842, when over a quarter of the area had been consumed by the rampaging flames. But the destruction of the old gave way to the new, and almost forty years after the terrible conflagration, rebuilding and construction could still be seen. Hamburg was also a city of culture, and boasted the Thalia Theater and the _Hamburgische Staatsoper_, where patrons could enjoy the latest work of Richard Wagner.

For Erik and Christine, after having spent more than a week on the road, the transition from the quiet countryside to the busy cityscape was dramatic. Erik admitted that he found a kind of comfort in the big city where he could hide in plain sight among the crowds, whereas Christine confessed to missing their previously peaceful rural surroundings.

"Don't forget, your 'peaceful rural surrounding' almost got you in trouble," Erik admonished gently.

"Oh, Erik; you're always looking on the negative side of things," she replied, looping her arm through his.

"Aren't you concerned that people will talk?" he said, referring to her public display of affection.

"Is it so wrong for me to show people that I love you?"

"It is when you're dressed as a boy."

Christine smirked, but quickly withdrew her arm. "Very well, I'll just keep my hands in my pockets. For now. But as soon as we get married, I plan on putting my hands anywhere I want."

"You do?" Erik asked, both amazed and bemused. "Is that a promise?"

Her answer was to laugh charmingly, but before she could say anything more, a red and white omnibus drove past them, one of many they had seen since entering the city.

"You know," said Erik, deftly changing the subject before he said something indiscreet, "with the extra money we have from selling Biscuit, we could give our feet a rest and take one of those."

"But to where?"

"Does it matter? We'll ask the conductor if he can recommend a decent place for us to stay."

Another block up, they found the omnibus stop and waited patiently for the next one to come along. Occasionally, someone would notice Erik's mask, but most people didn't care—or at least pretended so.

It wasn't long before a red and white vehicle pulled by a large draft horse stopped in front of them.

"Where are you going?" Erik asked in fluent German.

The conductor pointed to the sign on the front of the car. "The Alstadt."

Erik turned to Christine. "Would you like to stay in the old part of town?"

"Why not?"

They climbed on board and deposited their fare, then took a seat near the front.

"Can you suggest a clean and inexpensive inn where we might stay?" Erik asked the conductor. "We just got into town and haven't a lot of money with us at the moment."

The conductor eyed them up and down, and must have decided the two vagabonds passed muster, for he replied good-naturedly, "There is a nice place located off the Old Town square called _Das Goldene Flies_—the Golden Fleece. Nothing fancy, but the beds are clean and the food is good. I can drop you off at the old town square. It's a very short walk from there." He proceeded to provide directions and the name of the proprietress. "Tell Herr and Frau Kellermann that Ulrich referred you."

At the town square, Erik and Christine got off, waving good-bye to Ulrich as they made their way to the Golden Fleece Inn.

-0-0-0-

_Slop…flop. Slop…flop._

Erik halted. "Do you hear that?"

Christine stopped and looked around. There was nothing out of the ordinary, just typical-looking farmers selling produce in an equally typical-looking market. "Hear what?"

A small frown crossed his brow. "Never mind," he said, shaking his head. "I thought I heard something."

They set out once again.

_Slop…flop. Slop…flop. Slop…flop._

Erik stopped. "There it is again!"

Christine blushed. "Oh. That sound! It's…" She held up her right foot, slapping the loose sole as she shook her foot. "I think I need some new shoes. This one is coming apart."

"Well, as soon as we get ourselves settled in, we'll not only wire Bruguière for that money, but we'll get some new clothes…and shoes."

-0-0-0-

The Golden Fleece was exactly what Ulrich had led them to expect—an old, half-timbered affair. Judging from its construction, Erik would not have been surprised to learn that at least some of the building dated back to the Middle Ages. It was neat and clean – again, exactly as described. It presented a hospitable aspect, its colorful striped awnings providing shelter when needed, and potted flowers sitting in the window sills and to each side of the door providing more cheerfulness. The steps looked as though they had only recently been swept clean, with not a hint of litter to be seen on the sidewalk or in the street.

"I wonder if the landlady sweeps every day," Christine said quietly.

"Every day? Probably every hour!"

"Well, my father always told me that the German people were a clean, thrifty and industrious people."

"So far, I haven't seen anything to counter that opinion." Erik paused. Then he added, "Other than your two friends, Horst and Udo."

"They were hardly my friends," she retorted, then caught Erik winking at her and realized he was actually teasing her. Was it true, the man was developing a sense of humor? Well, she thought, would wonders never cease!

Inside the door, they were greeted by a large fireplace with a generous fire going. Neither had appreciated the nip in the air until they found themselves enveloped in the warmth that was inside. Aromatic fragrances wafted from kitchen, setting their mouths to salivating. Stomachs growled, and Erik and Christine exchanged sheepish glances. The fresh air had heightened both of their appetites. A hot meal sounded like the food of the gods!

"_Guten tag_." A middle-aged woman of stout build stepped from behind the counter to the right. "I am Frau Kellermann. May I help you?"

"Ulrich, the conductor on the omnibus recommended your establishment to us," said Erik. "My young friend and I are in need of lunch…and a couple of rooms for a week, perhaps two."

"Adjacent, if possible," Christine added.

The proprietress nodded, then puckered her brow in wary concern. "You have no luggage?"

"Unfortunately, there was a mix up at the train station in Bremen," Erik said glibly. "When we arrived, we discovered much to our chagrin that our bags were missing."

Frau Kellermann shot up an eyebrow. Erik took out some money, reassuring the proprietress that they were able to pay. This apparently satisfied her, for her demeanor swiftly changed from doubt to one of guarded welcome. "Follow me to the dining room, _bitte_. I'll see that you are served a hearty lunch while I prepare the rooms."

The dining room had a homey, rustic look to it. The rough-hewn walls were decorated with framed prints showing an assortment of country and farm scenes, interspersed with the occasional rack of antlers and stuffed deer heads. The room was not empty, but neither was it full, and the murmur of convivial conversation interrupted by intermittent laughter met their ears. From the way the mostly male clientele smiled and called to their hostess, it was apparent that there were many regular patrons.

Erik requested a table in the corner, away from the other customers, and after seating them, Frau Kellermann disappeared into the kitchen. She returned a few minutes later carrying a tray laden with a loaf of warm bread redolent with pumpernickel, a crock of sweet butter, earthenware plates and pewter eating utensils. Placing these on the table between them, she said she would be back with some nice hot soup.

"You are wearing your hat inside, young sir?" she reproached 'Christian."

Christine could feel herself blush. The landlady was right; it was rude of her not to remove her hat, but if she did, her disguise would be revealed. Best be succinct. "Forgive me, Frau Kellermann; it's just that I'm a bit chilled."

Erik picked up the knife tetchily and began cutting off slices of bread. "What are you serving for lunch today?" he asked their hostess, drawing the landlady's attention away from his traveling companion.

"Please, don't let it be hasenpfeffer," Christine muttered under her breath.

"Nein, no hasenpfeffer here," Frau Kellermann grinned. "That is fine for in the country, but here the specialty is _aalsuppe_."

"Eel soup?" Christine gasped, imaging a bowl full of slithering creatures.

Erik quickly came to her rescue. "No, not 'eel' soup; 'all' soup. You'll like it. It's savory."

Frau Kellermann nodded. "Ja, it is a soup made with fish and pretty much anything else our cook takes a fancy to. Be sure to save room for dessert! The _Apfelstrudel _is almost ready to come out of the oven." With that, the woman once again disappeared into the kitchen.

Christine watched, relieved, as the proprietress disappeared back into the kitchen. "Oh, thank goodness," she said in French, keeping her voice low. "I don't think I could eat another bite of rabbit right now."

Erik only grinned. "And here I thought you liked the rabbits I caught for us."

"In moderation, my dear. In moderation."

-0-0-0-

Erik and Christine had been shown to their rooms shortly after lunch. Sated by the hearty meal, they were eager to clean up from their hard week on the road. The rooms were modest but clean and comfortable, with eiderdown quilts on the feather beds and gossamer curtains over large windows that were wide open, letting in plenty of fresh air and sunshine. Window boxes held chrysanthemums and other fall flowers, heavy with blossoms that scented the air with a light, fragrant perfume. It was the first time they had been apart in days, and Christine was already missing him.

Frau Kellermann knocked on the door. Christine, still dressed as Christian, answered.

"Yes?"

"I brought you these," said the landlady, handing towels and wash clothes to her. Christine thanked her in her halting German, grateful that Erik had helped her brush up on her language skills during their weeklong trip, and was surprised to find the woman remained standing in the doorway. Something had made her suspicious, as she made a point of giving 'Christian' a closer inspection.

"Is something wrong?"

"_Ja_, I thought so," said the landlady. "You. You are what is wrong."

Christine's mouth went dry. The last thing they needed now was trouble. Again. "What do you mean?" she asked, trying to discreetly pull her hat lower, and failing miserably.

"You're no boy. You're a girl," Frau Kellermann said indignantly. "Are the two of you trying to pull something over on me? Well, let me tell you. I don't know what you and your…your friend are up to, but I run an honest establishment."

Oh dear! Christine thought. The poor woman must think we're thieves…or worse. It was no use, keeping up the act and pretending to be a boy: It was time for complete candor. "Please, Frau Kellermann, it's nothing like that at all," she said, calling upon all her stage training as she turned on the charm. "May I…may I confide in you?" She gestured for the older woman to join her in the room. Knowing that subterfuge was no longer necessary, she unpinned her hair and combed it out with her fingers. "It feels so good to take my hair down," she said, giving the landlady a grin.

Frau Kellermann was not impressed. "Well? I'm waiting for an explanation!"

"You see, Erik is my fiancé. We were on our way to Hamburg to be married and made a stop in Bremen when we missed our connecting train, which had our bags on it. So…" How much should she tell? Only what was necessary. She continued. "So we decided to hire a couple of horses and take our time. It has been such a mild autumn, and we thought…well, we thought it would be fun to take the longer route. But on our first day out, we were set upon by ruffians."

"Ruffians?"

"Yes. It was…frightening. I think they had been drinking. They took us by surprise as we were taking our rest, enjoying a bite of lunch. The horses bolted, taking what few possessions we had with them. There were, oh, I'm not sure—it happened so fast. But I think there were at least three, maybe four of them. It might have been five." By now, she could see that she had Frau Kellermann's complete attention. "If it hadn't been for Erik…" She shuddered to add weight to her story. "I hate to think what they might have done to me! A kind farmer gave me these clothes to wear. They were all he could spare. So you see, I had to pretend to be a boy!"

"Gott in himmel," the landlady exclaimed, taking Christine's hand into her own and patting it comfortingly. "You poor thing."

"In the end, we had only one dilapidated horse between us, and we walked half the way to Hamburg." Christine dabbed at her eyes, to accentuate the fear she'd felt. It wasn't all that hard; after all, there may have been in truth only two drunken louts, but their attempted assault had been frightening all the same.

Sympathetic understanding soon followed, as she turned Erik's intervention into a kind of storybook rescue. By the end of their conversation, Frau Kellermann had insisted that Christine call her by her given name, Hedwig, and promised to do all she could to help the young couple get married. And soon.

"But first, you must wash. I'm sure that after a week on the road, a bath must sound good."

Christine smiled. "It does indeed."

"Then wait here. I'll bring you things you need. No plain soap; I shall bring you a few things of my own that you can use. If you'd like, I can help you put up your hair once it is washed."

"This is very kind of you, but I hate to impose upon your hospitality."

"Nonsense, _mein machen_. It isn't often that I get to help with something like this. Let me get some hot water up here, and then we'll see about getting you nice and clean. Oh, and I think I have a dress you can use until you are able to get some clothes of your own." Hedwig clucked sympathetically. Once taciturn, she had turned positively voluble, and seemed eager to chat with Christine and take her under her wing.

"I confess that would be nice. I've enjoyed the freedom wearing boys' clothes has given me, but I miss looking like a girl."

Hedwig agreed. "Nothing makes a woman feel better than to have a pretty dress that shows off her figure. And I'm sure your fiancé will appreciate it, too." She gave a wink. "We may not be wealthy, my Klaus and I, but we have more than enough to be able to share our good fortune."

Later, when Christine knocked on Erik's door to see how he was coming along, she was wearing a becoming country-style dress. Her long hair had been washed and, thanks to help from Hedwig, was done up in braids with ribbons. Erik stared in disbelief.

"What's wrong?"

"I…I…Christine, you look beautiful."

She saw that he, too, was bathed and refreshed, and that someone had cleaned his clothes as well. She couldn't resist running her palm across his freshly shaved chin, and let her thumb caress his lower lip. "Thank you, Erik," she said with an impish grin. "You're not bad yourself."

-0-0-0-

Confiding in Hedwig had been a brilliant move on Christine's part. Hitherto, the woman had been standoffish, but now she emerged as a mother hen, being both fiercely protective of Christine and proud of the faith the young woman had placed in her. She was a font of helpful information, including directions to the rail station and a reputable bank where Erik and Christine could arrange for their savings to be transferred by wire to Hamburg.

Hedwig introduced the couple to her husband, Klaus—a big, burly, curly-haired man who reminded Christine of a gentle bear. The Kellermanns took it upon themselves to explain the local laws concerning marriage. These days, church weddings had been reduced to mere blessings by clergy. By law, marriages were required to be civil ceremonies performed at the local magistrate's office, without a waiting period. Gone were the banns that had kept couples waiting in previous years—and gone was the supremacy of religious institutions over matrimony.

With that in mind, Erik and Christine could hardly wait to set out into the city, conduct their business—and be married. By mid-afternoon, they were discussing going to the bank first to wire Édouard, and then to the train station to look for their possessions, but time was running short. Christine was determined to be married in the beautiful dress that Erik had given her, and nothing less would do. They hopped aboard the first tram that passed their way, heading in the right direction, and fretted that its ponderous pace would cost them valuable time.

Erik checked their funds. They had enough money to last a day or two. Since Christine was eager to find her dress (and a good pair of walking shoes), they went straight to the train station in search of their missing luggage, arriving only a short time before the main offices would close for the night. Christine was single-minded in her efforts to find her luggage, and Erik steered her through the crowds of waiting passengers, heading them straight to the storage area. A tired-looking man with a huge ring of keys grumbled as he opened the door for them. No doubt, he was ready to lock things up for the day, but one look at Christine's determined glare told him that he had better cooperate.

"Oh, look! I never believed we would actually find our luggage waiting for us!" Christine grabbed her portmanteau, paying the baggage clerk at the train station the coins owed for storage. Erik found his and likewise paid the man, adding an extra tip for good measure.

"At least now we'll have clean clothes," he said.

"And a proper wedding dress for me!"

Throughout the train station, they could hear keys turning the locks of the office doors, as clerks closed up shop for the night. Though the idea of seeing the sights of the city at night was enticing, they were both tired from the long day, and made their way back to the inn, content to spend the rest of the evening by the fireplace in the main room. The other boarders gave them a warm welcome, especially upon hearing the news of the disaster on the road and the announcement of impending nuptials. After their onerous journey, Christine was in a capricious mood, and regaled them with the tale of Erik's bravery and derring-do on the road from Bremen, each time embellishing the story with more and more elaborate details.

"If you keep stretching the truth," Erik whispered to her, "soon I'll be the embodiment of the German _übermensch_."

But she was enjoying herself far too much, loving being the center of attention as she spun a tall tale for her eager audience. It was only a wary glance from Hedwig that made her rein in the more outrageous aspects of her storytelling. The men folk, however, slapped Erik on the back and congratulated him for putting the rascals in their place, while Erik remained calm and reserved.

All eyes shone with amusement at Christine's enthusiastic exaggeration of events. It was possible that they didn't quite believe all she was saying, but they enjoyed hearing her tell it nonetheless, especially the pretence about "Christian." In return for the entertainment, one of the other guests—a big, stolid man with a long waxed moustache that curled at the ends—generously ordered a round of good German beer for everyone. Hefty steins were raised as the host cried, _Dreimal hoch_! ("Three cheers!") to the soon-to-be married couple.

After supper, Christine went to her room and wrote a letter to her landlady back in Paris, Mme Moreau, explaining that she and Erik were to be married in Hamburg and that she would not be returning to Paris. She asked that her personal possessions, including Erik's nykelharpa, be packed away for safekeeping and promised to send a forwarding address as soon as they were settled, along with money to pay the shipping costs. She wrote, "My only regret, Madame, is that you are not with us to help celebrate. Oh, I cannot tell you how happy I am! This is my every dream come true. I shall spend the rest of my days thanking God for bringing me together with Erik. I have truly been blessed."

-0-0-0-


	28. Chapter 28

**To Be Loved**  
**Chapter 28**

**By MadLizzy and HDKingsbury**

_"Love: A temporary insanity, curable by marriage."_  
**~Ambrose Bierce**

-0-0-0-

While the other guests at the inn were begging Christine to tell them more stories, Erik decided it was time to retire for the night. He caught her attention. A silent nod towards the stairs was his indication that enough was enough. Trying to keep from yawning, she obeyed; after all, it had been a long day, and she wanted an early start the next morning. If all went as planned, tomorrow would be their wedding day. The thought filled her with a combination of warmth and excitement.

Christine sweetly bid her admirers _Gute nacht_, ignored their cries of disappointment and dashed up the stairs. In the darkened doorway of her room, she waited for Erik to follow.

After an appropriate amount of time had elapsed, he slipped unnoticed into the shadows of the stairwell and made his way to his room. He moved so quietly, so stealthily that he could have eased right past her. It amused him to think that after all the time the two of them had spent together, he could still become invisible; but she peered into the blackness of the hallway and moved her head to and fro, searching. She sensed his presence.

His lips were close to her ear when he spoke. "Shouldn't you be sleeping?"

"Erik!" She hit him playfully on the chest with the back of her hand. "That isn't very gentlemanly of you, to startle me!" She tugged on his jacket, pulling him closer. "Come inside."

"No," he said hoarsely. "I'd best keep my distance. You are…entirely too tempting in your dirndl and braids, my dear."

Behind the open door of her bedroom, he could see the moonlight filtering through the window and casting a gloaming light upon them. She threw him an impish scowl, certain he could see her in the dimness. She touched her hair flirtatiously, tucking a loose tress behind her ear. "Since when have you become a pragmatist?"

"Ever since I met you. You have no idea the amount of restraint I've been forced to exercise, except for that one unfortunate error in judgment at the end of _Don Juan Triumphant_." His forehead drew into a frown. "My first appearance on the Paris stage, and I had to go and ruin it."

"At least it was memorable. A hundred years from now, they'll still be talking about you."

He snorted at the thought of such a thing. "I can only imagine what they'll be saying." He peered curiously at her. "What got into you tonight? You were positively puckish. I haven't seen you in such a whimsical mood since—well, not since you first discovered your Angel of Music."

"I'm getting married in the morning. I wanted to tout my good fortune. I'm happy, Erik. Aren't you?"

"Beyond my wildest expectations." He sighed ruefully.

"What's the matter?"

"You had such a sudden turnabout with your feelings. I don't understand your unreasoning fondness for me. Is this nothing more than an infatuation?" He pinned her with a doleful look. "Do I remind you of an ogre from one of your favorite fairy tales?"

"Perhaps it is love of the most exquisite kind. They say love is a kind of insanity." She twisted a finger in a buttonhole on his jacket. "Perhaps I'm potty. Perhaps I've made my choice, the way you always said I should."

"Oh." His shoulders sagged dejectedly.

"You don't seem convinced. Do you find it difficult to believe that being with you is a benison—a blessing—and that I find your anarchic lifestyle to be exhilarating?"

He shook his head. "It isn't logical."

"Or that the celerity of your lightning-fast mind makes me want you all the more?" She batted her doe eyes dramatically.

"Keep talking." He stole a glance at her. "I need more convincing."

"I've grown fond of your surreal non-sequiturs, your sudden reversals of emotion, your ribald asides—all of which is even more appealing due to the bizarre fact that standing before me is an impeccably elegant gentleman. The combination of the unexpected is…highly stimulating." She pulled him close enough to feel his hot breath on her brow, and was rewarded with a disarming smile. "Don't you believe me?"

"I…I need to be sure you won't change your mind. I couldn't bear it if…."

"I'm yours, Erik. What more can I say to win your trust?"

He squinted in the darkness, searching for a way to express himself.

"Madam, you have bereft me of all words,  
Only my blood speaks to you in my veins;  
And there is such confusion in my powers…."

"I know that speech. You read the play for me once. It's from _The Merchant of Venice._"

"And I recall a sonnet Shakespeare wrote of love as a duty. Once, I held your love in vassalage, Christine. I wanted to make you mine."

"You did make me yours, only not the way you fear. You won my heart." She snuggled against him, sighing as he wrapped his arms around her. "What is really troubling you, Erik? Are you having second thoughts?"

He gathered up his courage to admit his deepest fear. "I'm afraid you'll wake up in the morning, realize what you're doing, and catch the next train back to Paris."

She hugged him tight, showing him that she was not letting him go.

"Doubt thou the stars are fire,  
Doubt that the sun doth move,  
Doubt truth to be a liar,  
But never doubt I love."

He laughed bitterly. "Hamlet said that. As I recall, his story didn't end too well."

"Ours will, my love. It's happily ever after for Erik and Christine." She kissed his cheek just below the mask, where the smooth skin began to give way to a mangled mass of angry flesh. "Now, promise me that you'll rest?" She nodded to indicate he should answer affirmatively. "Good. You'll need your strength for tomorrow…." She stood on tiptoes and whispered in his ear. "Not to mention tomorrow night." With that, she stepped into her room and shut the door behind her.

He could have sworn he heard her giggling on the other side, and called softly to her. "Lock the door; you're in a public house." When he heard the key turn, he leaned his forehead against the solid wood and spoke again. "I love you, Christine."

Behind the closed door, her forehead rested in a spot corresponding precisely to the place opposite his own, and he heard her whispered response. "I love you, too, Erik."

He let himself into his room and sat on the bed, wondering how he would ever sleep this night. He folded his arms around himself and rocked gently back and forth. "This is it, old boy," he told himself. "Every man in this establishment envies you. She's yours now. All you have to do is live up to her expectations."

-0-0-0-

The next morning, Christine donned her best walking dress (that is, the best one she'd brought with her) and danced down the stairs. She was surprised to find Erik already at their table in the corner. A freshly baked platter of _guglhupf_, a ring-shaped cake, awaited her along with either strong black tea or coffee to go with it. He stood as she approached and helped her with her chair. Even though he was masked, she could see dark circles under his eyes and his complexion was wan, causing her to wonder if he were ill.

"You look tired," she commented. "Didn't you sleep?"

"Not much," he admitted.

"Is the mattress not comfortable? Mine is very soft, and the eiderdown quilts are wonderfully warm."

"My sleeping arrangements are fine."

Apparently, he was in no mood for small talk. She tsked sympathetically, daring to cajole him. "Poor Erik! I'm sorry you didn't sleep, but nothing, not even your grumpy mood, will spoil my day or my happiness over the fact that we are to be married!" She paused from pouring her coffee and examined him, making him feel like a slide under a microscope. "We are getting married, aren't we?" When he didn't answer her, she reached across the table and squeezed his hand. "You're worrying me, Erik. You haven't changed your mind, have you?"

She watched his appearance change before her very eyes. The sadness lifted like a veil, and he looked years younger, more like a mischievous boy than a world-weary man. The color returned to his features and he actually smiled at her—a genuine smile full of promise and wit. "Of course not," he said, positively aglow. "This is the happiest day of my life." He leaned across the table and, with a twinkle in his eye, stole a kiss.

Christine heaved a sigh of relief. "Hurry up and eat your breakfast. We have much to do, and I can hardly wait to get started."

"There's no rush. It's nearly half past nine. I've been up for hours. While you were sleeping, I took the liberty of going out. Among other things, I wired Bruguière. In a couple days, our financial worries will be over."

"Oh, I wish you had waited for me. I have a letter to post." She pulled it from the deep pocket of her skirt and showed it to him.

He scanned the address. "You wrote Mme Moreau? Might I ask what you told her?"

"I told her that I am ecstatically happy." She took a bite of the coffee cake and rolled her eyes as its buttery richness sated her taste buds. "I told her I will not be returning to Paris because we are getting married, and I asked her to pack up my belongings."

He frowned, and lowered his voice until she strained to hear him. "What were you thinking? You can't mail that letter!" He dropped it on the table and glared at it as though it were poison.

"But—"

"I am a fugitive from justice, Christine," he said under his breath, biting off each word tersely. "It is one thing for me to tell my lawyer, a man in whom I have every confidence, but another for you to tell—"

"Why is it all right for you to notify your friends, but not for me to inform mine?" she asked, a little miffed. "Besides, the dear woman will be frantic with worry if she doesn't hear something from me. And I trust her. She won't tell anybody—"

He glared at her in a way that would have struck terror in the heart of anyone else, but he knew Christine could not be bullied. "Can you be certain of that?" he said pugnaciously. "Would you stake our future on it? My life? If it fell into the wrong hands, I could end up on Devil's Island!"

"When you put it that way…but I have things in Paris. There's the nykelharpa that you sent me, and my mother's Bible with the petals of the first rose you ever gave me pressed between the pages. And need I mention the notes you sent? I kept them, every one of them, wrapped in ribbons and tissue paper." She dug in her heels. "These things are important to me; they're part of my life and I want them."

"You shall have them. But we mustn't foray blindly into danger. Let me ask Bruguière—"

"And what of Mme Giry? Without her, we'd never have gotten back together. She deserves to know that we're safe and to be married. Might you trust her to make arrangements with Mme Moreau on my behalf?"

"Perhaps," he relented. "Giry has been reliable in the past." He folded his arms across his chest while she sat across from him, stirring her coffee ponderously. They maintained an awkward silence, both keeping their thoughts to themselves, until he could stand it no longer. "I've spent a lifetime looking over my shoulder, Christine. I'm sorry…but if you marry me, you must do the same."

She shook her head. "I'd follow you anywhere, Erik. Haven't I proven that to you? And I'm the one who should apologize. It never occurred to me that something as innocent as a letter could pose a threat."

"Of course not. Why would it? You have an innocent, trusting soul." He stared as Christine put food on his plate. It might as well have been worms, judging from his disdain. "A hard life has made me a hard man. You must understand that lassitude is a luxury I can't afford."

"I'll do as you say, but you can't fool me. You are not a 'hard man.' You're a softie at heart." She wrinkled her nose at him, indicating that her opinion was intractable on this subject.

He reached for her hand, his icy demeanor thawing under the assault of Christine's relentless cheer. "When did you become so facile with words? Gone is the girl who tripped over her tongue."

"My maestro is a martinet," she said, twining her hand with his. "He trained me better than that."

He winced at the memory. "Was I such a brute, Christine?"

"Would I be sitting here if you were?"

Frau Hedwig interrupted them with a traditional German breakfast, a plate full of cheese and summer sausage along with dark bread and wedges of fresh fruit. "Can it be that the happy couple is wasting the morning with bickering? Aren't you happy with Herr Erik's plans?"

He cleared his throat and threw a baleful glance at the innkeeper. "I was just about to break the news to my bride-to-be, Frau Hedwig." He leaned forward so that his lips nearly touched Christine's ear, clearly disinclined to let anyone overhear him speaking to his bride. In a honeyed voice, he whispered, "I have a surprise for you."

Christine closed her eyes as his seductive tones resonated through her. "I like surprises," she said eagerly.

"This isn't Paris, where divas sleep until late in the day and stay up all night. This is Hamburg, where the Bürgermeister's office opens at 8 o'clock sharp. I was there when the doors opened, and have arranged—with the help of Frau Hedwig and her husband—to have him come here later today to the inn where he'll perform the marriage. I wanted him to come sooner, but the good man insists that he must be at his station until 5 o'clock, the end of his work day. He is a very conscientious man."

Christine looked up, and noticed for the first time the bustle of activity going on between the two servants that the Kellermanns employed. They were abuzz, festooning the rafters in the great room with ropes of green boughs interwoven with colorful flowers.

Frau Hedwig beamed at Christine. "When I got up this morning, shortly before dawn, I found your fiancé in the kitchen already working on his plans. He had been out to the market and met the flower vendors as they were setting up their carts. I think he was up all night planning this surprise for you. Now, you can spend the day relaxing and preparing for your wedding. It will be much more pleasant to be married here, among your new friends, than in some cold government office surrounded by strangers."

"Oh, Erik!" the bride gasped, her eyes bright with happy tears. "You have such a flair for the romantic!" She jumped into his lap and put her arms around his neck, burying her head in his chest. "You have made me the happiest of all women."

-0-0-0-

After eating her breakfast, Christine announced that she did not think she could stand waiting around until evening to come. She needed to be doing something.

"Perhaps I can help with the decorating?"

"_Nein_!" Frau Hedwig said emphatically. "You should do nothing of the sort." The older woman considered options for a moment. "Perhaps the two of you might like to take a walk. See some of the sights around Hamburg. It is a beautiful city," she said with civic pride.

"Oh, that sounds like a wonderful idea! Erik, will you come with me?"

"Wild horses couldn't keep me away," he said with a wink.

They had no specific plans for their free time, and so when a tram came by, they boarded it and explained to the conductor that they were new in town and wanted to learn their way around. The conductor said he was not able to alter his route, but if they would sit up front then he would do his best as a tour guide, pointing out buildings—the churches, the markets, what stores had the best bargains and so forth. After a pleasurable hour on the tram, the two of them were ready to do some exploring on foot. They thanked their conductor, who told them which lines would bring them back to their inn and where to catch them.

After bidding _auf wiedersehen_ to their congenial guide, Erik and Christine walked along the streets, admiring the sights until they came upon a small park. Rising in the center was what appeared to be some kind of memorial. The sculpture dominated the park with its figure of an angel hovering over a fallen cavalryman, holding him to her bosom as a mother would comfort a hurt child.

Christine stepped closer, walking slowly around the figures, her mood changing from light to somber. Erik took note of this and took her gently by the elbow.

"Does this upset you?" he asked.

"Yes. It makes me sad."

He read the inscription. "It is a monument to the warriors who died defending _Das Vaterland_ during the war against France," he muttered, somewhat contemptuously. He looked at the sorrow on Christine's face. "You may have been young, but you were living in France at that time. Yet you feel sorry for those who invaded the country you were living in?"

"Politicians and generals make wars, Erik. Common people – young boys with dreams of glory – are the one who fight and bleed and die. I feel sorry for any mother or sister who has lost a son or brother, regardless of their nationality."

Erik felt chastened. "Forgive me. I should not have been so flippant."

"Oh Erik, I didn't mean to upset you as well. You should not apologize. It is I who should not be allowing a silly thing like a statue to upset me on this of all days! I should be happy."

"Christine, you never cease to amaze me. You have a heart that could hold the entire world, and you give it to me. No emperor ever had such a gift."

Whatever sorrowfulness she'd been feeling only a few moments ago was thrown off in an instant. "For such a stern man, you can say the sweetest things when you want."

"Perhaps it is you bring out my softer nature."

They left the park and its sadness behind them, and continued window shopping. Christine, wanting to change the subject to anything but war memorials, asked Erik if he had given any thought to where they would live once they reached Sweden. When he admitted that he hadn't thought that far in advance, her response was to say that they would have to discuss this in more detail...but at a later date.

"And how will you support me?" she asked, continuing this topic of conversation. "You don't look much like a farmer to me."

She was teasing him, and this time Erik knew it. "I do have some talent in other areas," he said, responding in kind. "In fact, I have considered pursuing a writing career."

"Oh! That would be wonderful. I'd love to read more of OG's adventures."

He pretended to glare at her, but that only made her laugh. "Don't tell me you actually read that nonsense."

"Yes, I did, and very entertaining nonsense it was," she said, smiling smugly.

In the distance, a clock tower was chiming. "Only a few more hours…and we shall be husband and wife," he said.

"Then we should save the rest of our sightseeing for another day. I need to bathe and dress and… Oh, Erik! I'm so excited!" She hugged him, then hugged him again. The hug turned into a kiss. And then another.

"Me, too," he managed to say.

-0-0-0-

"I've never seen such a beautiful wedding gown," Frau Hedwig said as she helped Christine get ready. She was surprised to find that the young woman she had originally thought to be poor as a church mouse had such an extravagant dress. "Wherever did you get this?" she asked, admiring the exquisitely decorated gown with its delicate lace and bead work.

"In Paris. That is where Erik and I were originally planning to be married. But then problems arose." Christine didn't elaborate, but shrugged her shoulders in a very Parisian way, indicating that whatever those past problems were, they were no longer of any great import. "And everyone around us tried telling us what we should do, where we should go, who we should see. So we decided to leave."

"_Ach_, yes. I understand. Well meaning but interfering friends. You will like it better here," Frau Hedwig said. "You will always cherish the memories of your wedding here in Hamburg. Much nicer than Paris."

Christine gave the woman a quick hug, admiring the woman's very partisan preference. "I'm sure I will," she agreed. Here in Hamburg there would be no unpleasant memories to haunt either of them. Here, they could start fresh. As Hedwig braided her hair, Christine began to hum softly.

"What is that song?" the landlady asked. "It sounds…different."

Christine blushed as she realized she was humming the duet from _Don Juan Triumphant_, imaging what tonight would be like when she and Erik passed their own point of no return. "A song my fiancé wrote for me," was all she would say.

Hedwig nodded. "I see." She added the finishing touches to Christine's hair, winding the braids about the top of her head into a coronet. When she learned that Christine did not have a veil, she went to her own room and returned with a length of delicate old lace. "I used it for my veil when I married Klaus. I would be honored if you would wear it, too." Christine was moved to tears at the landlady's offer, and hugged her.

Hedwig pinned the lace to Christine's hair, adding yellow, gold and orange flowers freshly picked from her garden. A bouquet made of the same flowers sat on the dresser. When she finished, she stood back to admire her handiwork. "_Ja_, you look radiant!"

Christine went over to the cheval mirror and admired the dress and how she looked in it. She could not help but think of that other night. Though she hadn't understood why, something had told her that she was meant to keep it. Now it all was coming together. She had loved Erik back then, only she hadn't realized it. She had needed to grow up, to set aside her childish indecision and become her own woman.

-0-0-0-

The clock struck six. It was time for the marriage ceremony to begin. In the narrow hallway outside the upstairs bedrooms, Hedwig fretted over the many lacy layers of Christine's gown. "Let me hold this while you walk down the stairs, so that you don't trip and fall."

A change in the atmosphere alerted Christine to Erik's presence. She turned to find him standing outside his room, immaculately groomed and altar bound. "Erik! You look so handsome!" she exclaimed.

He looked down at his attire, dumbstruck, since he wore nothing formal—only a well-tailored suit that had been among the clothes he'd brought from Paris and a new, white shirt he'd bought when they were in town—but he had done his best to be presentable for the occasion. "It's rather ordinary, but will do," he said gruffly.

Forgetting all about Hedwig, she ran up to her groom and, standing on her tip-toes, gave him a quick kiss. "My, but you look good enough to marry," she said coquettishly.

Klaus, who had come to tell the couple that the magistrate had arrived, chuckled. "Now, now," he admonished playfully, "You'll have plenty of time for that…later. Right now, Herr Brenz has come from the _Standesamt_ and is downstairs waiting for the two of you."

Erik was a tower of strength and study in quiet confidence. He offered his arm to Christine, and without another word, they walked down the stairs. Hedwig dabbed away a tear and clung to Klaus, breaking away periodically to straighten the train of Christine's gown or to fuss over her. As they descended the staircase, the great room came into full view.

Decked out in ribbons, green boughs and flowers, the inn had been transformed into a romantic arbor. Neighbors and patrons waited reverently for the couple to make their way down. It wasn't every day that a couple came all the way from Paris to be wed in the little inn, but Christine had stolen their hearts. Everyone who had met them wanted to be a part of the celebration, and the room was crowded with onlookers and guests. As Erik and Christine entered the room, some of the men offered Erik their hearty congratulations and called him _das Glückskind_ ("lucky dog"), while the women wished Christine _Alles Gute! Herzlichen Glückwunsch!_ ("Best wishes!") and said they'd never seen a more beautiful bride.

An ancient crone shuffled forward and, smiling toothlessly at Christine, threw a small piece of porcelain at her feet, where it shattered into smithereens. "_Scherben bringen Glück!_" the old biddy cackled.

Erik and Christine stopped in their tracks, mystified.

"It's for luck," Hedwig explained. "Don't you know? 'Broken crockery brings you luck.'"

"Well, in that case, thank you," Christine said, holding out her hand to the stranger. "We need all the luck we can get!"

With help from Klaus and Hedwig, Erik and Christine took care of the necessary entries in the _heiratsregister_, the marriage register. Erik puzzled over the questions, growing irritated by the intrusive questions. They reminded him of his past, which was never pleasant. "How old am I? What are my parents' names? What is my religion? What difference does it make?"

Christine tugged on his sleeve and reminded him that it was only a formality. She wrote down the necessary information—making it up when necessary. "Age?" She peered at him. "Thirty-five."

"Do I really look as old as that?" he asked.

"Did I say thirty-five? I meant thirty. I'm not used to the German language."

"The numbers are Arabic, the same as they are in France."

"Birthplace?"

"Near Rouen." He had a faraway look in his eyes that gave Christine pause. Best work fast.

"Father's name? I'll write 'Alphonse'."

"Claude. Put down Claude Delacorte."

"Mother?"

"Arabella. Arabella Simon."

"Really?" she asked, intrigued.

"I have no idea. I like the sound of it."

Religion was next. "Lutheran." In response to her quizzical expression, he explained, "I liked that man in Bremen. He…converted me. As for my occupation, I am an author."

"You are so much more than that, but for as far as the registry's concerned, you are a writer." She continued, undaunted, and soon finished filling out the document. "There. How exciting! We're almost officially wedded."

Erik laughed a rumbling chuckle that emanated from deep within his chest. It seemed that on the cusp of his marriage, not even nosy bureaucratic questions would dampen his spirits.

Herr Brenz took his responsibilities seriously, and in keeping with German law, he avoided any trappings that might appear religious. Fortunately, the flowers and soft glow of lanterns were perfectly acceptable to the official. He spoke entirely in Low German, and Christine relied on Erik to help her respond to the questions he asked.

"Did your parents give you permission to marry?" he asked.

"Our parents are dead," Erik replied, tight lipped. "And it saddens my bride to be reminded of their absence."

Brenz nodded but plowed on, mindless of Erik's reproach. "Do you have promises to read to each other?"

Erik arched an eyebrow. "Promises? We've already made our promises," he replied stiffly. Damned if this wasn't the most perplexing wedding! The nerve of the man!

Brenz read through the _heiratsregister_ to ensure that all of the blank spaces were completely filled out, and then painstakingly copied the information into a _stammbuch_, a book with the marriage entry and space for entering children's births. He handed the book to Erik, offered him a handshake and said, "_Gratulation zu Ihrer Hochzeit!_" (Congratulations on your wedding!) and at once, the onlookers began to call, _Prost! Prost!_ (A toast! A toast!) and to raise their glasses to the newlyweds.

"That's it?" Christine asked quietly in French, not wanting to appear disappointed. "We filled out the papers, he says a few words…and we're married? Just like that?"

He put a finger underneath her chin and tilted her head up, so that he could see her face. He searched it for signs of remorse. Had she asked, he would have admitted that he was surprised, too. All those times he had imagined being married at La Madeleine, and this is how it turned out. The letter of the law had been fulfilled, but the soul hungered for more. "I guess this is how it's done here, my love. We'll have a church wedding later, as soon as we reach Sweden. I promise you. But for now, we are Mr. and Mrs. Erik Delacorte." He pulled her into his arms, and they kissed as husband and wife—much to the delight of their guests.

-0-0-0-

**Authors' Note:** As you can probably tell, we're coming near the end of our story. There will be one more chapter, and that will bring us to the conclusion. At least for now. From the start, Lizzy and I have envisioned a two part story; however, the second half is still in the process of being written and it could be several months before it is ready for posting. It will contain love and loss, adventure and romance...and some new characters who we hope you will like. If you don't want to miss the second half, be sure to add us to your author alerts. And thank you for your support.

~HDKingsbury


	29. Chapter 29

**To Be Loved**  
**Chapter 29**

_"Among my followers, the best of men are those who are best to their wives, and the best of women are those who are best to their husbands." _  
~The Prophet Muhammed

-0-0-0-

He deepened the kiss as he lifted Christine's hand, letting go of her waist so that he could slip a plain gold band on her ring finger.

"Erik," she whispered, blinking back tears of happiness as she gazed at the thin ring. "It's perfect! When did you…how…?"

He kissed her again, and when next he looked into her eyes, his own were shining brightly. "It is an outward symbol of fealty and devotion. Now the whole world will know that you are mine." He held his hand out, palm up, to show that there was a matching band meant for him.

She picked it up, placing a kiss on it before putting it on his finger. "And you, Herr Delacorte," she said with a sly smile, "are most definitely taken."

They held each other's hands, lost in their own world, until their reverie was shattered by cries of congratulations and best wishes from the wedding guests. Erik held his head high, confident and proud, and Christine was unable to take her eyes off him. He'd never seemed more powerful, more magical than he did at this moment.

A quick reception of sorts followed, where the guests at the inn gathered round as the Kellermanns presented Erik and Christine with a traditional toasting cup from Neurnberg. "This is a gift from all of us to the two of you," she said, as the small crowd applauded. "It was made right here in Germany. It will be a keepsake as you grow old together."

"_Danke schön_," they said together, much to the delight of the onlookers. To Christine, the charming cup appeared to be a simple pewter figurine, not quite as long as her hand. It depicted a young maiden wearing a long, full skirt and holding a small, inverted bowl over her head. To this foreign bride, it was merely a decoration, a souvenir, but Erik recognized it at once and cheerfully explained the legend behind it.

"Such vessels hearken to medieval times, when the king decreed that his daughter, Kunigunde, would only marry a man who could invent a cup that they could both drink from at the same time. Watch," he said, demonstrating how it worked. He lifted the figurine and turned it upside down, revealing that the "skirt" was actually a large drinking vessel and that the "bowl" swung freely, turning upside-down to become a cup not much larger than a thimble. Because the smaller cup swiveled, two people could drink from the cup at the same time.

"Go ahead," Hedwig prompted. "Whoever can drink all of the wine without spilling a drop will rule the roost."

"This is our first act as a wedded couple," Erik said pointedly. "It will require cooperation if we are to do it right."

"May all our days be filled with cooperation, for our mutual benefit," a teary Christine replied.

The guests roared with approval as Christine, who had the smaller cup, finished her wine without spilling a drop. Erik, with much more to consume, tilted his head backwards and downed the wine with one gulp, much to the delight of the onlookers. Next, toasts were offered by the other guests who had served as witnesses. Then, the happy couple withdrew to their separate rooms to change clothes and prepare for a private supper.

0-0-0

Alone at last, Christine fumbled nervously with the ribbons on her peignoir as she appraised her reflection in the mirror that stood in the corner. She could hardly believe that, after all this time of longing and waiting, she was a married woman!

Happiness fell over her like a warm, protective mantle. "Mrs. Erik Delacorte," she whispered. She held her hand out and looked at the simple gold band that he had slipped onto her finger less than an hour earlier.

Her heart fluttered with excitement. This was her wedding night! She had scarcely allowed herself to think about it. When they returned in their wedding finery, Erik had escorted her to her room and then withdrawn to his own. He had kissed the back of her hand and gazed at her longingly as he whispered, "Until tonight," and then he was gone.

Frau Hedwig had fussed over her for the better part of an hour, helping her with her bath, combing out her hair, and making sure Christine's wedding dress was cared for properly. The good woman had also decorated her chamber with fresh flowers and pungent greenery from the garden. Honey-colored beeswax candles burned brightly in the evening light, imparting a sweet fragrance as they cast a golden glow on the white walls. "I was saving this quilt for my own daughter's wedding," she chirped, as she smoothed the wrinkles out of the bedcover, "but you're the first honeymooners we've ever had in our inn. I want you to have this for a wedding present."

"But you've been far too generous already! We really couldn't," Christine protested, silenced by a defiant glance from the determined woman.

"Look at the pattern," she said, pointing at the gaily-colored fabric that sported a wedding ring motif. "It will bring you luck. I will make another for my daughter. After all, she's still a child. There is plenty of time for her! But you, young lady! You are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen!" She leaned conspiratorially close to Christine and took her by the hands. "Is there anything you need, before I go to fetch your wedding supper?"

When Christine shook her head shyly, the older woman clucked like a mother hen. "Now, now, _mein liebchen_. You can ask me anything. I'm an old married woman, you know. If your own mother were here, she would want you to have someone you can confide in. Someone who knows what to expect." She arched her eyebrows knowingly, as though eager to impart state secrets.

She turned three shades of red. "I love him, Frau Hedwig. That's all I need to know."

Hedwig giggled like a schoolgirl. "_Ja, ja! Das is gut_." She slipped out the door, shutting it tight behind her, and cackled all the way down the stairs. Christine could hear her making her way to the kitchen, singing to herself.

"You'd think she was the one getting married," Christine muttered. A gentle tapping at the door startled her. "Erik?"

"May I come in?"

She crossed the room as if on wings, her step as light as a feather in her delicate half-slippers, and quickly unlocked the door. She tilted her head to the side and grinned as she took stock of her husband's immaculate appearance.

Erik waited to be asked in. He had also dressed for the occasion, wearing a brilliantly figured black velvet _robe d'interieur_, or lounging suit, with a matching velvet cap that reminded her of his attire during her the first visit to his lake home underneath the opera house. Every hair of the wig he always wore was smoothed carefully into place, and his demi-mask had been cleaned until it shone in the candlelight. On his feet were leather slippers that gleamed with fresh polish. She inhaled deeply, taking in his unique, masculine scent, and let her eyelids close half-way as she nodded approvingly.

"You are irresistible," he told her, as he looked at her hungrily. Her long, loose hair curled around her shoulders and glowed in the firelight. He could not stop himself from reaching out to her and letting his fingertips caress the ribbon tying together her robe. The light blue peignoir was not new; she had often worn it after performances at the opera house, when changing out of her costume. He recognized it at once. He had seen it through the mirror at the opera house but had never imagined how soft it was, nor how delicate the lace edging would be. Her lips formed a beckoning bow, demanding a kiss, and he leaned in.

Hedwig's heavy step on the stairs outside their room warned them of her rapid approach. They jumped apart, Erik hitting his head on the lintel as he leapt backwards into the hallway.

"Your supper has arrived, my dears. Aren't you hungry?" she called, as she neared the landing at the top of the stairs. "Or, have you sated yourselves on the food of love?"

"Just a moment," Christine called, stifling her giggles. She opened the door wide for Hedwig, whose hulking husband, Klaus, was close on her heels. Both bore large trays of covered dishes, and quickly set the table with the wedding supper.

"I hope we aren't interrupting," the big German said merrily to Erik, who lurked in the doorway of his own room, doing his best to appear innocent while discretely massaging the contusion that was forming on the top of his head. Klaus pointed to an oak bucket filled part way with ice and the dark green bottle inside it. "We chilled the wine as you asked," he offered helpfully, "and my wife even made a _Lutz_ for you." He pointed to the small sponge cake dusted with cocoa and covered with almonds so that it resembled a log. It was heaped with marzipan decorations in the shape of forest foliage, mushrooms and wild berries.

"It's beautiful!" Christine exclaimed, as she cooed over the rusticated cake. "Thank you both. This is the best wedding supper I could have imagined."

Hedwig beamed, rightly proud of her culinary skill. "There's soup and hearty country bread with fresh butter, and for the main course, knockwurst with cabbage and potatoes." She took off the cover of a large dish and waved wafted her hand over it to spread fan the aroma.

"So much food!" Christine gasped, amazed at the bounty set before them. "How will we ever eat it all?"

"Oh, my girl, you will need to eat to keep up your strength. I doubt we will see you at the breakfast table in the morning."

Erik coughed, announcing his presence. Klaus and Hedwig stepped aside to allow the bridegroom access to the bridal chamber, but he acted as though they didn't exist. His mind was on one person tonight.

"Come, dear," Klaus said nervously, somewhat intimidated by Erik's single-minded demeanor. "We need to leave the happy couple to themselves."

Hedwig gazed at the two of them as if they were her own flesh and blood. "We wish you a good night, children," she uttered, though Erik at more than thirty years of age was close enough to her own age to be her brother. "And if you need anything, anything at all, just call."

Klaus nudged her with his elbow and offered an apology. "You would have to call very loud, sir, so that we can hear you, because this house is as tight as a drum. The walls are thick as can be and the floors are…solid!" He grimaced as a loose floorboard squeaked underfoot. "We can't hear anything that goes on in these old rooms. Not a thing, I assure you! You will have complete privacy tonight, as you should." He steered Hedwig out of the room gently, but firmly.

Erik smiled when Christine locked the heavy door behind them and put the key on the nearby dresser. "I thought they'd never leave," she groaned. A loud cheer rose from the great room below as the Kellermanns descended the stairs, and a rousing chorus of German love songs ensued.

"At least they're on key," Erik joked. "There's an old German custom for the bridegroom to provide plenty of liquid refreshment for everyone at the inn. In no time at all, the others will be singing and dancing, and paying no attention at all to the honeymoon suite." His face burned with embarrassment. "I mean—"

"I know what you meant," Christine said sweetly. "My husband thinks of everything." She frowned, noticing how far away he seemed. "What took you so long? I thought you'd never get here."

"I was waiting for you to send for me," he said, shrugging his broad shoulders. "You must know, Christine, I'd never make assumptions—"

"On our wedding night, you wait to be invited to my chamber?"

He concentrated on the heavy-laden table. "I…want this night to be…perfect."

"It will be," she whispered.

He lifted the lid off one of the serving dishes and cocked an eyebrow. "Sausages?"

"Frau Hedwig said it was a local custom," she offered.

He scoffed. "Frau Hedwig is pulling your leg. She must think we are poor." He straightened up stiffly, and gazed at the small heap of coals burning in the hearth. "This isn't what I wanted to give you, Christine. I wanted you to have the finest in all of Paris. Acclaim on the stage. Gourmet delicacies. Couture fashions. And here we are in Germany, of all places, eating peasant food on our wedding night and wearing old clothes. I mean, if _I _can't be the best, then everything else you have should be."

"Have you heard me complaining?" she asked, wrapping her arms around him. "I like what I have. I never asked for more. All I want is right here: you, and the simple pleasures of life."

"I'll make you happy, Christine," he swore. "I promise you, I'll make it up to you—all you have given up to be with me."

"No more sad talk, beloved. Not tonight. This is the happiest day of my life." During their long journey, she had come to understand how much Erik needed her. Long years of intense loneliness had left him ill-prepared for normal social intercourse. She had forgiven him for his mistakes and for his lapses in judgment; perhaps, she loved him all the more because of them.

His eyes shone bright with tears, but with remarkable self-control, he redirected himself to the joy of the moment. "Yours and mine," he added softly.

Through her thin peignoir, she felt the thick velvet of his lounging suit, and his taut, muscled form underneath it. He shifted slightly, turning so that she would not be aware of the affect she was having on him, but did not relax his grip. She was beginning to relax in his arms when her stomach growled most unbecomingly.

"Oh!" she said, chagrined. She fumbled with her hands, knowing where she wanted them to be—anywhere on her husband—but realizing that propriety demanded that they at least try to eat enjoy their supper before trying other pleasures. "We should try to eat sample something, while it the food is still hot. W-w-warm, I mean. That is, while it is still f-f-fresh." She put her hand over her mouth when she realized she was babbling.

"Nervous?" Erik asked, as he held the chair out for Christine. He'd force himself to eat a bite, because he knew Christine must be famished. She hadn't eaten since breakfast, in her excitement, and he wouldn't have her going hungry because of him.

Christine watched Erik serve her plate. She enjoyed the way he fussed over her and anticipated her needs. He knew her better than she knew herself. He hesitated when it came to choosing the sausages, though, and scowled at them. Christine knew he needed a bit of propping up. "Yes…and eager, too."

He stole a glance at her from the corner of his eye. Was she serious? She was eager? "Me, too," he said, doing his best to sound reassuring. He left his own plate empty, reaching for the wine instead. He draped a napkin over the cork and twisted it open, satisfied by the loud pop as the pressure of the fine champagne did the work for him. "Maybe a little of this will help." He poured two glasses of the golden, effervescent wine and offered one to her.

They twined their arms together and sipped their champagne while looking into one another's eyes. "You're the most beautiful bride that ever lived," he told her, for he knew it was true.

She giggled, but when she saw his puzzled expression, she said, "It's the bubbles. They tickle my nose."

Erik laughed softly. "You're not supposed to drink sparkling wine with your nose."

"Sparkling wine? Is that the same as champagne?"

"Only sparkling wine from the Champagne region may be properly called _champagne_, my little wife. And look what I found in one of the shop near the market...imported from France, an actual bottle of Dom Perignon."

"Oh, Erik! It's so extravagant!" She made a noise of approval and held out her glass for more.

"It isn't every day that we are wed," he said with satisfaction. "We can splurge a little on our wedding feast."

She blushed again, turning a most becoming shade of crimson. "It's delicious." She moved her food around her plate with her fork, suddenly conscious of the forms and shapes and their resemblance to…to the human physique. Two potato halves, for instance, reminded her of twin mounds peeking out from a tight bodice. The sausage…well…that was obvious! Suddenly, her peignoir seemed cumbersome. She loosened the top ribbon, hoping Erik would notice.

He winced as he looked at the heavy food before him, but a sly grin began to emerge. He chose a particularly fat wurst and with the delicacy of a trained surgeon, he sliced off a bite and offered it to Christine. "Care to try my sausage?" he asked as innocently as possible.

To Christine, Erik had never been more attractive. One glimpse of the proffered bite, and she turned serious. Very serious. "I'm not hungry…for food." She turned her head towards their wedding bed.

The soft, fair skin of her neck reflected the firelight. Erik's gaze followed the curve of it to her white shoulders—so pale that they seemed to glow like alabaster—and continued down along the décolletage of her gown. "Christine," he whispered. He swallowed hard as he realized she was staring the bed.

"The food can wait," his bride responded. She reached for his hand, and rose to lead him to their nuptial bower.

To her surprise, he pulled away and began to put out the candles. "First, let me bank the fire," he said quickly. He piled ashes over the coals until the hearth was dark, and checked the room one last time. His movements were jittery, aflutter. Only the candle on the nightstand remained lit.

"What are you doing? I can hardly see you." Christine held out her hand in the darkness, reaching for his shadowy form.

His voice was an octave higher than usual, terse with his own case of the jitters. "I…the lights…it should be dark."

"Why?"

"When we…. Damn it, Christine. Think before you ask questions!"

"You needn't be angry," she said, hurt and a little offended by his outburst.

Immediately, he was contrite and ashamed. "I'm sorry! I'm sorry," he said, over and over again. He sat on the edge of the bed and held his head in his hands. "I'm so sorry, Christine."

She sat beside him and rested her head on his shoulder. "It's all right. I'm edgy, too. It isn't as though I've ever…done this."

"We have a lot to learn about each other," he said in his raspy voice. It was noticeably shakier than usual. "I only wanted to protect you."

"From what? From your appearance? Don't you know by now? If it bothered me, I wouldn't have married you."

"Nonetheless, I am no less gruesome in spite of a marriage certificate. And you…you are…perfection. The image of us together is…blasphemy."

"Then, blasphemers we shall be." She stood before him, emboldened by his reticence, and unraveled the ribbons that held her peignoir shut, shrugging off the gown. "Has it ever occurred to you that I am conscious of my own imperfections, and worried of what you will think of me? After all, no one has ever seen me like this…."

Ever so slowly, she peeled off her negligee and stood before him, inviting him to gaze upon her nakedness. She turned around slowly, letting him take his fill of her, standing just out of arm's reach. "I am yours, Erik. Body and soul. This is our night." She stepped close to him, close enough to feel his hot breath on her bare skin. She leaned over and snuffed out the candle. "If all you want is darkness, I give it to you freely."

He stood up so quickly he nearly knocked her over and embraced her tightly. This time, he made no effort to conceal his arousal from her as he loosened his jacket. His bare chest grazed hers, and she pressed herself against him. "Nighttime sharpens…heightens each sensation," he muttered. "It Darkness stirs and wakes the imagination." He drew a hand down her back, letting his fingers create ripples of pleasure. "You are sublime. Have I ever told you that?" He kissed her neck, biting her gently as he moved down to her shoulder. In pitch dark, he was daring. He slipped off the rest of his clothes so that Christine could explore him, too, and groaned with pleasure when she unfastened his mask so that she could kiss his miserable face. "What rich desire unlocks its door," he whispered.

The feel of his lips and teeth on her bare skin thrilled her. She quivered at his touch, and whimpered for more. The sound of it drove away every thought except finding release. Their hands were unfettered in touching and exploring, evoking murmured sighs and whispered affirmations. To his delight, the more he touched her in a certain way, the more insistent she seemed. Kisses were no longer enough to satisfy her. She wanted him. She wanted him!

The physical joining was a flurry of motion and need, driving them both to pull and push against each other with fevered urgency. "Please, Erik. Please," she moaned. "I need you."

He growled his response, a sound of passion and primal desire, and with one swift motion he buried himself within her. "It is done!" he cried, choked with emotion and primitive need. "We are one!"

She gasped and let out a quick, sharp cry of blended pain and pleasure, but when he shrank back, appalled at what he had done to her, she held him tight and said, "I am yours, always and forever. This was meant to be."

He could not see her tears, but he could feel them on his on bare cheek. He wiped them away with his thumbs, loathe to release her. "I have hurt you!" he said, keenly aware that his moment of triumph meant that Christine had given him a precious gift. She had been an innocent girl; now, she was married in every sense.

"It's…I'm…I'm fine. Just give me time to…adjust." She lifted her hips to admit him fully, and the discomfort faded away, only to be supplanted by a growing need that demanded satisfaction.

Conjoined but not fulfilled, mutual desire and instinct overtook their self-consciousness. Each motion, no matter how slight or how inept, pushed them closer and closer towards a climactic release. They groped blindly through their first coupling, lost in their love, until they found their bliss.

-0-0-0-

Later, as they lay together, happily spent, Erik seemed apologetic. His eagerness and inexperience had made him feel clumsy and awkward – not at all as he had imagined. He'd expected to be suave; instead, he was…enthusiastic, and not particularly skilled. "It will be better the next time."

"It was wonderful," she sighed. "It was exactly as you said it would be: buds bursting into bloom and sweet seduction! I knew we shouldn't have waited. I should have sprung upon you in Bremen and insisted on being married then and there." She stretched her arms over her head and smiled from ear to ear. She was as content as a kitten. "Just think of all the time we wasted, when we could have been…doing this."

He grinned back at her, relieved that the consummation had been pleasant for both of them. Perhaps now he could relax and consider ways to improve his techniques. "I should have taken my time, been more of the kind of lover you deserve."

"But you are the kind of lover I want – one who worships and adores me and does everything I ask. In fact, you seem to know what I want before I do. I think I am the luckiest wife who ever lived." She trailed her hand along the inside of his thigh, delighted with the response it caused. "I am very fulfilled, and don't you think otherwise for one moment."

He pulled her closer to him, feeling rather proud of himself for a change. "Frau Hedwig would say it was the knockwurst that did it. Old German custom and all."

"If that's the case, we must lay in a supply before we leave for Sweden. We'll want it every night for supper!"

-0-0-0-

Over the course of the next few weeks, they discovered that the joys of the flesh served to deepen the spiritual bond that had always been strong between them. They ventured out to see the sights of Hamburg, to make memories of their honeymoon that would last a lifetime. After a week, they had begun to feel the need to move on. A new life—together—awaited them in Sweden.

Christine began to teach Erik her mother tongue. "I'd forgotten how much I enjoyed speaking in Swedish. And I must say, you're picking it up quickly. Soon, you'll be speaking like a native."

"It's similar in many respects to German. From now on, when we're alone, I want you to speak to me only in Swedish. And make sure I answer you correctly. I'll learn faster that way. Nothing less than perfection will do."

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Yes, maestro."

He ignored her jibe, pulled his coat around his shoulders and then checked the muffler Christine wore around her neck. "Stay warm. We can't have you catching a cold now, can we?"

"No, maestro." She shivered as a bitterly cold wind cut through the woolen coat that Erik had bought for her. "I do believe it will snow today."

"Snow is a rarity this close to the coast, but it's almost November. It must already be snowing in Uppsala, and it's dark most of the day, too."

"Dark? That should make you happy."

"_You_ make me happy."

She snuggled against him. "Swedish winters are severe. There will be snow on the ground for four months each year! But, summer is surprisingly warm. It will be brighter than France, too. Oh, Erik! I can hardly wait for Midsummer!"

"Is that a festival?"

Her face lit up with excitement as she talked. "It's not just any festival. It's the biggest one of all! There will be music, and dancing, and a Maypole…and…and…oh, Erik! It's better than Christmas, I promise you."

He'd never seen anything more beautiful, more alluring, than she was at this very moment. "Christine?" he asked mischievously. "Do you know the best part about long, cold winters?"

She rolled her eyes, knowing a joke was coming. "What is the best part about long, cold winters?"

"Spending it with you, underneath our new eiderdown wedding quilt, keeping warm."

Her eyes sparkled. "You know, I'm feeling rather cold at the moment. Why don't we go back to the inn and warm each other up?"

They turned back not a moment too soon. As they walked toward the Golden Fleece Inn, tiny snowflakes began to fall; soon, it would cover the streets and sidewalks. Their footprints were quickly masked by a thick carpet of snow, leaving no trace behind of Erik and Christine.

-0-0-0-

**A Few Words from your Authors:**

Thanks for reading and reviewing! It's a pleasure to write for such a responsive audience. Stay tuned for the continuing adventures of Erik and Christine Delacorte. Your obedient servant, ~ML

-0-0-0-

As my good friend and partner in crime says, Thank you! It's been a pleasure hearing from old friends and making new ones with this story. As I mentioned at the end of the previous chapter, Lizzy and I hope to have part two of _Two Be Loved_ ready for posting in a few months (possibly this fall), so add this story and/or your authors to your alerts so you don't miss the rest of the story. ~HD


	30. Chapter 30

To Be Loved: Part II

Chapter 30

November 3, 2010

**Authors' Note:** Lizzy and I would like to thank all of you for your patience while we took some time off from writing and attended to real life. I won't go into a lot of detail but will say that during the summer and early autumn, life has at times been hectic! Among the things I had to deal with was the caring for, and finally saying good-bye to, an aged furry friend—my sixteen-year-old Jack Russell terrier, Old Pete. Pete was a wonderful friend during the time he was with us, and he will always have a special place in my heart. With all I had going on, writing was the last thing on my mind, but these days I am not looking back, but forward. Yup, I got another puppy, also a JRT, who is a very demanding fellow! His name is Buddy, and if there are any typos or mistakes in the chapters I'll be posting, I'll blame them on being distracted by this newest member of the family!

Although part two of _To Be Loved_ is not yet completed, Lizzy and I have about two-thirds of it finished. My plans are to post a chapter a week and keep my fingers crossed that our muse will keep us occupied and writing, so that there are no long waits between chapters. Part 2 will feature old characters and new, happy times and sad times, adventure and romance, but most of all our favorite Opera Ghost – Erik.

Enjoy!

~HDKingsbury

* * *

"_I watched them from where I had concealed myself and counted as they filed past my hiding place. There were five including the captain. Those were not such bad odds, I thought – one fantôme against five nefarious pirates. Yet there was no reason why I should exert myself any more than necessary. One by one, with a flick of my Punjab lasso, I picked them off until the only one remaining was the captain – as vile a piece of scum and villainy as had ever walked this earth." _

_~Erik Delacorte, May 1882_

Erik set aside the page he had been writing. This was a good place to stop and work out how he wanted his alter ego to dispatch the pirate captain. Should the two clash swords and fight a duel to the death, or should he come up with a more imaginative end for the pirate captain? Yes, he thought, something less mundane and more imaginative was called for, but Erik found himself unable to fully concentrate on the task at hand. The letter sitting off to the side was niggling at his brain.

Six months had passed since he and Christine had made their vows to one another and left Hamburg for a new life in Sweden. Their leisurely route had taken them through the ancient city of Rostock, located on the Baltic coast. From there they headed to the Zingst peninsula with its sandy coasts and fishing villages, where they caught the ferry to Sweden. Winter was already making its presence felt, but Fortune smiled upon them and sent a spell of mild weather that lasted long enough for them to make the crossing with relative ease.

They'd spent most of that winter in Uppsala, and during that time, Christine taught Erik the fundamentals of Swedish. That the language was similar to German helped him catch on quickly. Her teaching techniques were effective, and included rewarding her pupil with smiles and embraces each time he correctly learned his lessons, which in turn inspired him to study harder—although often there was more caressing and kissing and less edification during homework time, but neither of them complained. They also spent this time getting to know each other on a more intimate level.

Erik could not shake the private shame he felt over what he saw as his excessive enthusiasm on their wedding night, and had been making every effort to be gentle with her since then. The last thing he wanted was to presume anything, though the restraint was starting to wear on his nerves. Although he knew Christine was not happy with his decision, he had been very conscientious about taking "necessary precautions" to ensure he did not impregnate her. The thought of fathering a child was frightening, but too often the mere thought of being with her acted as an intoxicant upon him, and he feared what might happen if he allowed his self-control to slip once again. The memory of the tiny red marks he had left on her neck and shoulders on the eve of their wedding still made him wince. There had even been slight bruises on her hips where he had gripped her firmly as he had made her his own. He could not bear the thought of having hurt her, and promised himself to always treat her as gently and as tenderly as possible.

When winter's icy grip finally eased, they left Uppsala proper and headed just north of the city to Gamla Uppsala – Old Uppsala – a village that was once the ancient seat of the medieval kings of Sweden, with its flat, fertile landscape dotted by ancient burial mounds that added an air of mystery of the place.

This was near Christine's birthplace, where the Delacortes planned to make their home. Erik wondered if she would rather live in the house in which she'd been born, and was relieved when she explained that no, that was the last thing she wanted.

"No doubt, the old place is long gone," she explained, remembering how when she had been barely six years old, her father had sold the old farmstead to seek fame and fortune in the big city. "Besides, this is a new beginning, and while I like the idea of returning to the region of my childhood, I am not interested in reliving it. A house of our own with no buried memories is what I want."

And that was what they got.

Erik contacted a real estate agent, who directed them to a modest two-story country house that was currently vacant. The building was very much in the rural style, its exterior painted red with white trim. The candles on the windowsills added to its appeal. Inside, the newlyweds were greeted by cheery rooms that were filled with plain furniture made of a blond wood. The furnishings were functional, almost primitive by Erik's standards, but Christine was thrilled by them all. She was especially pleased with the modern amenities that had been added to the place such as a pump that provided running water in the kitchen, and fireplaces with small stoves for heating every room. There was even a bathroom complete with a claw-footed tub. After a tour of the premises, Erik and Christine agreed that this was exactly what they wanted – a home that was far enough from the city so that they could enjoy the bucolic peace of a rural setting, yet close enough to the capital city should they wish to visit it.

"The previous owner was a wealthy farmer who enjoyed his creature comforts," the agent explained. "But he eventually grew tired of country life and moved back to the city."

"And here we are, wanting to shake off the dust of the city and settle in the country," Erik said with a little laugh.

A price was agreed upon, and they were able to purchase the house thanks in part to royalties Erik had received from his first foray into writing, along with the advance he had received for agreeing to pen another episode of _The Memoirs of an Opera Ghost._ The original story turned out to be so popular that it was now being published in book form. Thank goodness, Erik thought more than once, that he had an trustworthy man in Édouard Bruguière to serve as his literary agent. He recalled with more than a little pride the publisher's letter his attorney-cum-literary-agent had forwarded to him. Perhaps it was indeed possible for him to earn an honest living. This was the least he could do for Christine, after all she had given up to be with him. Her career…Paris…the security and comfort that de Chagny offered her. Their humble abode seemed small recompense for her pains.

He looked around at his room on the second floor, the one the two of them had turned into what they jokingly referred to as his workroom. It had the look of a man's study, with a sturdy desk for writing and shelves that held the beginnings of what Erik hoped would one day be a significant library. He was working hard these days, trying to be the kind of husband Christine deserved. He had even agreed to the hiring of a middle-aged couple to help around the house, Oskar and Anna Nystrom. Fru Nystrom took care of things inside such as housekeeping and cooking, while Herr Nystrom worked as a kind of handyman. The chores required of the Nystroms could be completed in the space of a few hours each day, allowing them to return to their own house and leaving the newlyweds ample freedom to enjoy their privacy.

In spite of the progress he had been making when it came to interacting with people, Erik remained something of a recluse. He chose to let his wife socialize with the "hired help" as he called them privately, and made it known that he had no wish to mingle with the villagers. If left to his own devices, he would have had no problem with staying "holed up" and leaving Christine to take care of any errands, but she wasn't about to let that happen and occasionally was able to persuade him to come out and enjoy the sunshine.

He continued wearing the half-mask, but at his wife's insistence he had settled for one of lightweight cloth. In fact, she had insisted upon sewing several for him. The only time he removed the mask was at night, and even then, he remained uncomfortable without it. Bless his dear Christine, he knew she was not completely happy with this, but she was making every effort not only to accommodate him, but also to understand that old habits die hard.

Erik sat back, eyeing the stack of papers before him, sheet upon sheet covered in his neat copperplate hand. He had been working on the latest volume in the _Memoirs of an Opera Ghost_ for the past several hours, and his body was telling him that it was time to take a short break. His writing hand was getting cramped, and he was having trouble keeping his eyes focused on the words he was writing. The muscles in his upper back and neck were screaming, and he rose from his chair and paced the room, shrugging his shoulders a few times to work the muscles loose. He flexed his wiry frame, stretching long arms and legs until the blood began to flow again, then shook his hands to speed up the process as his mind wandered far beyond the manuscript.

Last year, when called upon to write his own highly fictionalized memoirs in response to the equally fictionalized accounts of his life that were being written by reporters wanting to make money off of his notoriety, Erik had discovered that he had a knack for writing, that doing so allowed him to tap into his own fertile imagination. He grinned at the stack of already-finished chapters. This time, the Opera Ghost was telling of his youthful adventures in the Far East and the time he had thrown in his lot with a group of bloodthirsty pirates (was there any other kind?) who plied their trade in the Gulf of Tonkin in French Indo-China.

Leaning back in his chair, he listened in on the conversation and laughter that was coming from the kitchen below. Female voices. Christine and Fru Nystrom. The topics they covered were varied and often humorous. Living in Paris and spending most of her time there at the opera house had left his bride rusty when it came to simple household chores. During their stay in Uppsala, Christine had confessed to Erik that she had never really been very good at cooking, nor could she recall the last time she'd done much in the way of cleaning or doing laundry.

"I'm afraid your new wife isn't very domestic," she had teased.

"Then I shall have to find someone to teach you housewifery," he had replied with a burgeoning sense of humor that he had recently discovered was hidden within him all these years.

Laughter filtered from the kitchen. Maybe the older woman was teaching Christine to cook some of those traditional Swedish favorites of which his wife spoke so fondly. Erik smiled wistfully as another peal of laughter floated through the house. He was listening harder, trying to make out what they were saying. It seemed that now they were discussing _him_ and the fact that if left on his own for too long, he would live off bread and water, along with an occasional hunk of cheese. Goodness knows he'd had his fill of apples on the road trip in Germany.

Erik allowed a sigh to escape. There were days when he was terribly uncomfortable with the Nystroms about, no matter how nice they'd been to him. Of course, the fact that he paid them handsomely helped in this matter, though it didn't stop either of them from glancing at him when they thought he wasn't looking. Idle curiosity, he was sure, but it brought back memories of the days when he had been little more than a display in a freak show. (But that was long ago; it was time to put such thoughts away.) Such thoughts were unrealistic, as he knew that it would be asking too much of Christine to expect her to do all the household chores herself, even though their home was modest. Besides, she was not like him. Whereas he could do just fine without contact with other people, Christine could not. Where he saw himself as a creature of darkness, she was his opposite, an angel of light. She was vivacious, and enjoyed hearing the latest gossip and sharing confidences.

His hand reached up, instinctively checking that his mask was in place. It would never do for someone, even the housekeeper, to see him without it. Reassured that all was as it should be, Erik rose from his seat. He glanced at the envelope sitting off to the side and picked it up, pulling out the letter inside. He'd read it before and was familiar with its contents, but wanted to go over them again before showing it to Christine. It was from Bruguière.

Since arriving in Sweden, Erik had been carrying on a discreet correspondence with the attorney. Neither wanting to put anything in writing that would incriminate Erik or divulge his whereabouts, their letters were for the most part brief and to the point, dealing with business and financial matters through a kind of code they had created. When information of that sort was required, they came up with intricate ways to pass it along. Erik had created fictitious identities for himself and Christine in these letters, referring to themselves as Bruguiere's nephew and his wife.

Erik wanted to believe he could trust Bruguière, and while the man had never done anything to suggest otherwise, the instinct for self-preservation could not be ignored. Especially when one was a parole breaker.

-0-0-0-

Christine brushed away a stray lock of hair that had fallen across her brow, leaving in its place a streak of red paint across her forehead. She stepped off the stool to admire her handiwork. Against a background of pale blue, there was now a cheerful border of red tulips and bright green leaves running near the low ceiling of the kitchen. The pattern was repeated around the window frames and doorjambs.

"It's looking like a real home," Fru Nystrom said encouragingly. "I like what you are doing in here. Nothing like a little stenciling to give a house personality." She hung a copper mixing bowl from a hook over the counter, where it gleamed in sunlight streaming through tall, narrow windows.

"I'm afraid it's a bit rustic for my husband's tastes," Christine replied with a sigh. "But I like it."

"He will come to like it, all right," the older woman said with a wink. "He likes everything you do. Oh, don't shake your head at me. I've seen the way he looks at you." She wiped her hands on the towel tucked into her apron. "Married life agrees with him," she said with a sly grin, fishing for a reply.

Christine ignored the bait and put the tops back onto the paint cans. She worked the kitchen pump to fill the sink basin, and washed her hands after rinsing out the paintbrushes and sponges with mineral spirits. She waved Anna Nystrom away when the older woman made to help. "You're busy enough preparing supper. I can do this myself."

Anna put a little extra effort into mincing the lingonberries that would be used in the sauce for the reindeer roast she was preparing. "Your husband looks very healthy. Of course, I don't see him often, since he keeps to himself in that room of his. He's a hard worker though, that one, whatever it is he does."

A small titter escaped Christine. Anna did not understand how Erik made his living, but she had surmised that the man of the house was a gentleman who needed solitude and quiet in order to accomplish whatever it was he was doing. Christine had only told her that he was writing a novel, which had elicited sympathetic clucks. Better they think he was an eccentric artist struggling to earn a living than to know the truth about his past. She stared out the window onto the verdant countryside. After the long, dark winter, springtime had finally arrived in Sweden.

It was a time of the year when all around them, life burst forth. Before too long, it would be time to celebrate the summer solstice, the most popular festival in the country. She watched the spring lambs kicking up their heels in the nearby lea, and decided that the scenery was a stark contrast to the image of little over a year ago, during that ill-fated performance of _Don Juan Triumphant. _

Anna commented on how healthy her husband looked, reminding the young bride of Erik's appearance that night beneath the opera house, of how badly injured and thin he had been while in prison.

"Yes, he is healthy. Bachelorhood was…well, let's just say he's eating better, taking care of himself," Christine replied.

Silently, she thought, _He's laughing more often, too. I love the sound of his laughter. Beneath that austere exterior he was always projecting, there has been a sense of humor waiting to get loose. He's saner; those dark moods are not overtaking him as they did in the past, and he looks younger. He's happy, perhaps for the first time in his life – even if he can't quite believe his good fortune_.

"I noticed he's putting on a little weight. His clothes look a little snug," Anna commented, interrupting Christine's reverie. Christine nodded in agreement. She had grown fond of Anna Nystrom in the short time they had known each other. The woman was forthright, always saying what was on her mind, and Christine felt comfortable with her. After years of paying close attention to how she behaved in French society, she found this openness and honesty refreshing. It was very…Swedish.

"Anna, can I tell you a secret?"

"Of course, child," the woman answered, a little worried by the other's tone. She put down her knife and walked over to the sink, standing next to the young woman. "Is anything wrong? Is it…well…you are newly married. Perhaps it is that? You know, there are some things that a woman must get used to. I am an old married woman, Fru Delacorte. You can ask me anything."

Christine blushed, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks as she remembered her wedding night. Erik had been ardent and passionate, claiming her as his own in a way that he had not done since. If anything, she longed for the utter abandon that he brought to their wedding bed that night. Oh, it was always pleasant but…

"It isn't that," she heard herself saying. "We're very…compatible." If her cheeks felt warm before, by now they were absolutely on fire. "It's just that, I never realized how much I missed this life. As I have told my husband, I am a simple country girl at heart."

"Oh good. You had me worried for a moment," Anna said, chuckling.

"My husband...he worries that I married him for a ticket back to Sweden."

Anna's eyebrows shot in surprise at this sudden admission. "But you love him! Everyone can see that. Why, your eyes light up when he walks into the room."

"Oh, it's nothing," said Christine, embarrassed that she had disclosed this intimate detail. She hurriedly dried the paintbrushes on a stained rag. "It's getting late. Time for me to practice my singing." She rushed out of the room, leaving Anna perplexed.

In the parlor, Christine took out a Lutheran hymnal and considered the church calendar before selecting the hymns that she would practice. The clinking of pots and pans in the kitchen let her know that Anna had resumed cooking. Perhaps this coming Sunday, Erik would accompany her to services at the old cathedral. Even if he did not consider himself a religious person, he would surely appreciate the art and architecture of the building that dated back to medieval times. And there were the drawings that were etched by Vikings into rune stones that had been used in the foundation of the building. When presented with this combination of history and incomparable acoustics, she felt certain that a visit to the church should be irresistible to Erik.

In fact, the lure of hearing her sing there nearly always compelled him to follow her. Thankfully, the congregation had made them both welcome. With a little friendly encouragement, the Delacortes agreed to have their marriage blessed next month, making their union official in their new community. Pastor Rosenqvist, when he learned of their German civil wedding, had frowned and joked that their marriage needed a decent Lutheran benediction. She grimaced as she recalled Erik's angry response.

"My wife has never done anything indecent in her life, and I'll thank you to rephrase your remarks."

Rosenqvist had burst out laughing, not the least bit intimidated, and good-heartedly slapped Erik on the back. "Quite right, my good man, quite right," he replied and from that moment on, he had made a pet project out of Erik, recognizing that this man who kept half of his face covered was not like the other men in his flock.

It seemed that people were always having to come to terms with Erik, no matter how hard he tried to avoid conflict. Mamma Valérius once told her that in any relationship, one person usually had to give in a little more than the other, in order to make that bond work. Christine had already come to terms with the fact that she was going to be the one "giving in" to accommodate her husband's sometimes dark personality, and so must others.

Giving in. The term caused her to purse her lips and scowl at the hymnal in her hands. He was aware of her desire to give him a child, and yet his reluctance was unaltered, even though he knew she was unhappy with his decision. Hadn't she shown him how much she welcomed his touch, going out of her way to demonstrate how much she wanted to be with him in every sense of the word? Whenever he approached her, she held out her arms to him, ensuring that they were in physical contact as often as possible. She never turned him away when he reached for her in total darkness at night in bed and hoped that one day he would feel secure in her love.

Patience was not only a virtue. It was a strategy. While she couldn't know everything he had gone through in his unhappy life, she knew enough to understand that with Erik, these things would take time. And there would be plenty of that. She was young and confident that eventually he would come to understand that the natural consequence of their love would be a child.

Lost in thought, she stared at the pages before her, oblivious to her surroundings until a disturbance in the air told her that someone had entered the room. She looked up from her book to find her husband standing in front of her, as though he had simply appeared there.

"A penny for your thoughts?" he asked.

She giggled and reached for his hands to pull him down beside her on the settee. "You may have them, but a penny will not do. I only accept kisses."

He pecked her cheek and sniffed the air. "Not _gravlax _again," he said with disappointment, referring to the cold-cured salmon dish the housekeeper had been working on earlier.

"It's for this coming weekend. Fru Nystrom says it must be prepared in advance, to allow the fish to pickle. How can you tell?"

"Need you ask?" he said, covering his nose with the cuff of his sleeve.

She ignored his antics. "And what brings you down from your room this time of the day? You usually work all afternoon. Have you put away your writing for now?"

"I thought I heard you singing." He pulled the letter from Bruguière out of his pocket and showed it to her. "Here. Read this."

She skimmed the page quickly before handing it back. "So, Uncle Édouard wants to visit us. Is it safe?"

"He is a very discreet man."

"Why now? Is there something urgent?" She felt apprehensive, frightened by the possibility that they were in jeopardy. "Is there more? Is there something you're not telling me?"

He put his arm around her and waited until she had nestled against his side before continuing. "All is well, my little worry wart. Édouard says that he has good news that he wants to deliver personally, and nothing more. Besides, he wants to see this Acre of Eden that we have carved out for ourselves."

"Is that how you see it?" she said with a sweet laugh. "A little country house, far away from the madding crowd, is a paradise?"

"It is to me." He kissed the top of her head. "With my angel beside me, I have finally found a corner of Heaven."

"Oh, Erik," she purred contentedly. "We are happy, aren't we?"

"If I were to wake up this moment from this dream—this dream of a perfect life—I could live the rest of my life content in the knowledge that for a time, however short it might have been, I had everything I ever wanted, right here in my arms."

She shuddered as a chill ran through her very core.

"What's wrong?"

"Oh, nothing. Just someone stepping on my grave is all. That's…morbid, romantic, and completely like you to say something like that." Worried, she pulled back to see his expression. "We have a lifetime ahead of us, a long, long time to enjoy ourselves and our new home. Now that I've got you, I'm not letting you go anywhere anytime soon, and don't you forget it."

He chuckled, a deep and mellow sound that warmed her through and through. "I won't."

-0-0-0-


	31. Chapter 31

**To Be Loved**  
**Chapter 31**

**November 7, 2010**

"_The heart has reasons that Reason does not understand."_  
~Jacques Benigne Bossuel

"The man's handwriting is atrocious," Erik mumbled, reverting to French now that they were alone. After reading the letter, he and Christine had adjourned to the dining room, where they'd enjoyed a hearty meal of reindeer roast and lingonberry sauce with potatoes. He rubbed his eyes and squinted at scrawling script of the letter before him. "Bruguière says he has some good news for his favorite nephew, and that he can't wait to share it with us in person. Besides, he wants to see how we're settling in our new home." He pushed his plate aside and rested his elbows on the table, staring at the paper in his hands as though willing it to burst into flames. Supper was over, as far as Erik was concerned.

Christine laughed at his grousing. "I've grown so accustomed to hearing you speak in Swedish that I'd forgotten how beautiful French is when you speak it."

"Even though we are living in seclusion, we must maintain a veneer of civilization. From now on, in the evenings, I shall wear formal clothing, and we shall speak French when we are alone. Rustication goes only so far." He sneered down his nose at the plate of 'peasant food' before him and wondered if Fru Nystrom could be taught to prepare a few simple French dishes. Basil salmon _terrine_ and _coq au vin_ might not be too difficult for her. He closed his eyes briefly and imagined the fragrance of good French cuisine. _By Gad_, he thought, _I could prepare those dishes myself, if necessary_.

When he opened his eyes once again, he could see that his wife was perfectly content with the simple fare set before them. Filling and tasty, it was the embodiment of the Swedish maxim, _Take what you have, and make the best of it_, asshe often reminded him."Culture has its limitations," she replied tersely. "Besides, I think you look adorable in your Swedish country gentleman's walking suit. The pants make looking at you enticing, especially from behind."

Suddenly, Bruguière's letter became far less interesting. Erik lowered the stationery and looked at his wife questioningly. "From…behind?"

She smiled to herself. "You heard me." She allowed her remark to sink in a moment before adding, "You don't wear a jacket, which means, I can see the outline of your…you-know-what." She inclined her head and peered at him knowingly.

Enlightenment dawned upon him. "Then all that walking up and down stairs at the opera house has paid off." In spite of his best efforts to maintain a façade of dignified reserve, he grinned like a Cheshire cat. "I should make it a habit to walk up and down our stairs, oh, several hundred times a day to make up for my inertia of late. I do believe I am putting on weight." He stuck his thumbs into the waist of his pants for good measure.

Christine waggled her eyebrows suggestively. "I'm not complaining."

He stared at her, trying to discern her meaning. He caught the look in her eye, and his cool elegance melted away. "How do you do it? You always manage to say exactly what I need to hear."

"_C'est l'amour, mon homme," _she replied._ "L'amour."_ She gave him a sidelong glance and decided to change the subject, at least until she had finished her meal. "I, for one, can't wait to see Édouard again. After all, he is your dear friend." She saw the skepticism on his face. "He is. He saved your life, and he will be happy to see what you've made of yourself, now that your circumstances have improved." She put down her fork. "Did he ever see that garret you were living in, with its bare floors and walls, and not a decent dish to your name? You should be glad that you have a real home to welcome him into, one that you can be proud of."

"A home," Erik repeated as he looked around the room. The main floor of the house held a small parlor, a large dining room, the kitchen, and a washroom that was not only serviceable for laundry, but also for bathing. Upstairs was his study, a large master bedroom, and a small room that had originally been used as a nursery. Christine had been busy turning all this into a _torp_— a country home—and filling its rooms with loving details. She spent many days painting the whitewashed walls in the bright colors that were typical of Swedish homes, and making sure that the floors were covered in warm woolen _rias_ woven in traditional striped patterns. In each windowsill, she placed candlesticks and at night, their golden beeswax candles burned brightly, the light emanating from the pierced tin shades casting interesting patterns on the walls and ceiling. For a moment, he thought back to his old home on the lake underneath the opera—his damp and dismal home far underground. It had been furnished ornately, but with ill-gotten gains, whereas every item in this house was come by honestly. "You've made _our_ home very pleasant," he said amiably. "I shall be very proud indeed to show it off to Uncle Édouard."

She reached for his hand and squeezed it before launching into the details of her plans for the visit from their good friend. "Tomorrow, I'll ask Oskar to bring a bed from town for Édouard. He'll sleep in the nursery…or what was once the nursery." She paused a moment to think. "We'll call it the extra room from now on. Anyway, we can take him to see all the sights in Gamla Uppsala – the cathedral where King Erik was murdered—"

"—the medieval king?"

"The same."

"I'm sure Édouard will appreciate the story of how he was tortured and humiliated before being beheaded. Beheadings are quite appealing to the French."

"Now you're being sarcastic."

"I am?"

"You know that you are. And then we can show him the ancient burial mounds, the stream where the _näcken_ lure young women into the bottomless water—"

Erik shot her a withering glance that did not deter her in the slightest. "How cheerful, and how perfectly Swedish. No doubt you'll fill him with those Dark Tales of the North you like so well."

"Of course," she replied matter-of-factly. She kissed him on the cheek as she cleared away the dishes. They could wait until tomorrow to be washed. Tonight, she had plans for Erik, plans that did not involve household chores.

-0-0-0-

A few days later, Erik sat at his writing desk staring out the window, hoping for a glimpse of Christine. She often perambulated the property, gathering flowers for vases that were scattered about the house. Occasionally, he would hear her singing, and the sound filled his heart with unspeakable joy. He looked down at his work, and read the last paragraph one more time.

"_Putting all my weight upon my arms, I hauled myself up the rope ladder that had been dropped down the side of the ship for me to climb. The Hindu girl on my back clung for dear life, wrapping her arms around my neck until I feared the wind should be cut off. 'Princess Lakshmi,' I muttered, dreading we should both perish in the roiling seas below, 'I promised to save you, and save you I shall, if you but let loose your grip a little! The rope tied round your waist binds you to me. You will not drop into the sea and be lost forever like poor Ranjee, not while I still live."_

He gave the passage a satisfied nod. The pirates' tale was almost at an end. At this point in his fictitious memoirs, Erik was in charge of a flying garrison of twenty Portuguese bringing sepoys to mainland India to protect the local raja, a man of immeasurable wealth. His swashbuckling alter ego had fought off hordes of godless savages, groped his way through cobra-filled jungles, and swum across shark-infested waters, all while protecting the girl whose life he had pledged to save. He had been writing for hours, or so it seemed, and when he surfaced from the depths of his imagination, he discovered that Christine was nowhere to be found.

He looked at the calendar and remembered that today was a special day. Grabbing a small leather pouch he had set aside for the occasion, he stuffed it in his pocket and searched the house high and low for her, but she wasn't inside. He peered from every window as well, but to no avail. He frowned. Usually, when she left the house for any length of time, she would whisper to him, letting him know where she was going and when she expected to be home, so that he would not worry about her. Her soft goodbye for a brief parting would be accompanied by a pressing of her beloved lips upon his forehead – the unmasked part of it that was smooth and unblemished. It was a private moment between husband and wife that he treasured beyond words, for no other living soul had ever dared to bless him with a kiss.

The Nystroms were also nowhere to be seen, though this was not unexpected. The hour was well past their usual quitting time. Now late afternoon, the sun was still high overhead. By Midsummer, the sun would not set at all. Despite believing that he was alone, Erik checked his mask and wig before setting foot outside to continue his search. He opened the door and headed for the barn.

A short distance from their home stood a small barn that housed a few farm tools, a buggy, a spirited gelding, and a longhaired goat. He smirked when the goat bleated a greeting, and the horse pricked its ears and snorted. Big brown eyes stared expectantly at him. Though he rarely came into the barn, he knew that Christine often visited the animals, and would bring treats to them. Her actions reminded him of how she used to walk through the opera house, greeting all of her fellow employees by name. From the loftiest patron to the lowliest chambermaid, she knew them all by name. It made no difference to her whether they were rich or poor, or whether they could help her in any way. She remembered the details of their lives, their children's names and their worries, and always inquired as to their health. They loved her for it, and anyone could see that they regarded her as the queen of their hearts. It was that way wherever she went. Animals, children, people – they were all drawn to her, instinctively knowing that she was pure and good.

And so it had been with Erik.

He stood inside the tall double doors and inhaled the scent of fresh hay. Oskar was doing a thorough job of keeping the place clean, that much was easy to see. Erik had originally balked at having a goat, but Herr Nystrom had insisted, saying that Prince, the gelding, was lonely and needed a companion. Erik had scoffed at such an idea, but the fact was that the horse had calmed down considerably once the nanny goat had settled in.

The first time Christine had seen the big horse and the tiny goat sleeping side by side, she pronounced it "adorable," and declared that the goat was also strong enough to pull a small cart for a toddler. "What fun that would be," she added with a meaningful look. An absurd notion. It was utterly ridiculous. The picture in his mind of a tiny child, a miniature version of himself complete with mask, pained him. He couldn't get it out of his mind.

He stopped in front of the horse's stall and shooed away the goat, which had begun to pull on the hem of his jacket with full intention of eating it. "Next time, I'll bring you a piece of bread," he promised, then laughed at himself. _Erik Delacorte, goat keeper. How low the mighty hath fallen._

"Erik? Is that you?"

He started, hearing Christine's voice calling to him from somewhere above. Was she up in the hayloft, perhaps?

"No. It's the bogeyman," he replied. "Who did you think it was?"

"Very droll." She leaned over the edge of the upper flooring, her head hanging upside down so that she could see him. She had taken down her hair, and it hung in a reddish-gold cascade in the glow of the afternoon light. "Why don't you come up here? The hay is fresh and clean. It's wonderful!"

He climbed the ladder in no time at all to be near her. "What are you doing up here, anyway? Don't you realize that you could have broken your neck?"

She settled back against the hay, smoothing the wrinkles out of her clothing. She had adopted the Swedish manner of dress, and since it was a warm day, she wore only her _särk, _a linen underdress, with a modest apron or _förkläde_ over it. "I like it up here. It reminds me of my childhood, when Papa and I would sleep in barns on our way to festivals." She was in a melancholy mood, he gathered. "We liked the barns better than sleeping in the beds that were offered to us by the villagers. Papa said that good fresh hay was the cleanest place we could sleep. No chance of bedbugs!"

He chuckled, which piqued her interest. She held out her hand and relaxed, contented when he settled in beside her. They laid in comfortable silence until Erik said, "I have something for you. A little gift."

She bolted upright. "For me? A present?"

"It's very small," he added hesitantly. "A token, nothing more." He held out the leather pouch, embarrassed by its plainness. A gift for his Christine should look more worthy of her, not like this unadorned, ordinary leather pouch.

"You got me a present!"

"It's your birthday."

Her face lit up in a smile of joy. "You remembered." She gazed at him with eyes brimming with love.

"Of course I did. I only wish I could have gotten you something…more."

"Erik," she said softly. "Do you know what I really want?"

He glanced away. He knew, but there would be no babies. She had no idea what she was asking of him, or what she was asking of a child should it be born…like him.

She opened the pouch and poured out the contents into her lap. "I love it," she said happily.

"How do you know? You haven't even looked at it yet. You might hate it."

She clasped it in her hands and looked into his strange, mismatched eyes. "I don't have to see it to know I love it. It's from you."

"Silly girl," he said affectionately, his mood brightening. "Here. Let me put it on you." He pulled her hands apart and held up the necklace in one hand, and the matching earrings in the other.

It was a choker made of rose-colored stone beads, with a pendant in the same material shaped like a heart. Two tiny dangling earrings with heart-shaped drops matched it perfectly.

"Put it on me," she asked, holding up her hair to give him easier access to her neck.

"It's made of a stone found only in Sweden, though one day it may be discovered in other parts of the world. It's called rhodonite, from the Greek _rhodos_, or rose." After a moment's hesitation, he added, "The locals say that it has special powers."

"Powers?" she asked. Her curiosity was aroused. "What kind of powers?"

"They call it 'the singer's stone.' It is said to give one perfect pitch. Not that _you _require a talisman."

She turned her head from side to side, modeling her new jewelry. "Where did you get this? I've never seen anything like it."

He laid back and put his hands behind his head as he talked. "Lapidary is not among my skills. I found the stones in bedrock when we were out walking in the hills one day, and pried them loose and hid them away. You were busy picking a bouquet of wildflowers, as you are wont to do, so you paid me no heed." He paused when she wrinkled her nose at him. "I found a man in town who had the necessary tools to polish them and drill holes in them. I hope you don't mind that I took the parts to finish them from the odd pieces in your jewelry box, the ones with broken or missing fittings."

"Not one bit. You may rummage through my personal belongings whenever you wish, if it means giving me presents like this." She leaned down and kissed him several times before he pulled her atop himself and rolled over in the hay, pinning her beneath him.

"You don't understand," he said, a little angry with himself. "You should have treasures laid at your feet. After all you have given me, the best I can do for you is to give you worthless rocks."

She clutched the tiny heart-shaped pendant, her eyes glittering with unshed tears of joy. "This is far from worthless!" she protested. "And besides, you have given me so much more. You have given me your love." Then she collected herself and added impishly, "Not to mention a house and help with my chores."

"It isn't enough," he replied gruffly. "You deserve more. You deserve better." Thoughts of the priceless emerald ring, now lying in the murky depths of a lake in the middle of Paris, filled his mind. He wondered if the Lefèvres still had the remnants of the emerald that they said had been fashioned into earrings.

Her voice broke into his thoughts. "You've made me happy. There isn't anything more or anything better."

He searched her eyes for deceit or flattery, and found neither. She certainly seemed content with their lives together, thrilled when given pretty rocks instead of precious gems. "That tickles," he said as she ran her fingers along his ribcage.

It only encouraged her. By now, she knew every inch of his body, knew how he responded to her touch and to her lips, knew what he liked best. And she was determined to try it all, to use all her skills and knowledge, right here in the hayloft. She paused to inhale the scent of his cologne and murmured, "Penhaligons. You're wearing that _Hammam_ cologne again, aren't you? It smells divine."

"I smell of hay and ink who knows what else."

"I like it. You smell fresh and clean. Pure."

"The maker thinks this fragrance smells like a Persian court." He put his hand on her chest, fingering the neckline of her dress. "Obviously, he has never been to Persia."

"It makes me think sinful thoughts." She nipped at his hand, and chuckled soft and low when he drew it back in surprise.

"I always think sinful thoughts when I'm with you."

"Show me," she said, enticing him with an intimate touch. "Show me what you're thinking."

"Stop that. It's broad daylight. And here, of all places!"

"Has it occurred to you that I'd like to see my husband when he makes love to me, instead of groping about in the dark? And what's wrong with a hayloft, anyway?"

He picked a piece of straw from her hair. "It's uncomfortable. We'll both end up with rashes on our…on very uncomfortable parts of our bodies, if you have your way."

Frustrated, she pushed him aside and sat up. "You are exasperating. Do you think that I am not already imagining how you look when you…when we…at that moment between lovers? The thought of it is…terribly exciting. Don't look at me that way! It's true, and there's nothing you can do about it." She let him stew on that a few moments before adding, "There are days when you are as bold and as daring as can be, and other days, you're intractable." She wagged a finger at him. "Remember in January, when you built the house of ice and took me there for supper? It was warm and cozy and incomparably romantic." She beamed at the memory of the walls and ceiling of ice and snow. It had been like something out of a fairy tale, especially with the glow of lantern light piercing the ice, lanterns her husband had carefully placed around the exterior perimeter to create the effect of entering a fantasyland.

"It was freezing," he countered. "We might have caught our deaths of colds. But it wasn't nearly as risky as that thing you did with the wreath of candles on your head at Christmas."

"Santa Lucia," she said wistfully. "If we had a daughter.…"

"Don't start, Christine," he snapped. "I'm not in the mood for it."

"You're never in the mood for it." She heaved a weary sigh. "It's nearly summer and all around us there is new life. Don't you see, Erik? There is every possibility that if we had a child, it would be healthy and happy."

"And ugly."

"So what if it is? I'd be perfectly happy if our child looked exactly like you."

He touched his mask, and then his wig. "Until our child leaves our little corner of paradise and enters the real world. On that day, you'd learn what it means to be reviled."

"Does anyone here revile you?"

"No, but that's because you're with me."

"Your logic is slipping. I'll be with our child, too, if we have one." She smiled, obviously pleased with her apparent victory, and nestled beside him in the hay.

The warmth of her body and her irresistible allure drew him away from dwelling on his wounded past. He gazed lovingly at the shape of her very feminine body outlined by the simple dress. He leaned closer, his face nearing hers. Tentative kisses turned passionate, and soon he was breathing heavily with desire.

"Christine," he panted, pulling away reluctantly. "Did you mean it when you said…here…in the daylight…us?"

The clear, hopeful expression told him all he needed to know.

"Maybe one day," he whispered. Seeing disappointment in her eyes, he asked in a deep and husky voice, "Tell me what you are thinking."

That voice, edged with need…. It was useless to resist. "It…it seems as though you are holding back…as though you are afraid to let yourself really love me…to be with me in every way."

He responded with surprising frankness. "I am afraid. I'm afraid I'll drive you away from me. For now, we have this moment, however restrained or limited it might be. Can't it be enough, Christine?" Again, he searched her eyes for the disappointment he expected to find—disappointment in him, as a husband. As a man.

Her cheeks flushed with shame. "Of course it can," she said, smoothing out the worry lines that were etched into his face with her kisses. "Of course it can."

-0-0-0-

The following week, a telegram was delivered to the Delacorte house, announcing Bruguière's arrival in Stockholm. He expected to be in Uppsala the following day and provided them with the name of the hotel where he planned to spend the night. On the following morning, Oskar hooked Prince up to the cart. He offered to pick up their guest, but Erik declined, preferring to meet the attorney himself and maybe get the man to spill the beans on whatever this good news was. Jumping up onto the seat of the cart, he snapped the reins and headed into the city. Soon Erik and Édouard were exchanging greetings at the train station.

"Country life looks to agree with you," said Bruguière, helping Erik put the few pieces of luggage in the back of the cart. The attorney had been pleasantly surprised when he saw Erik. Gone was the stiff and formal man he had known back in Paris. In his place was a more relaxed country gentleman. Moreover, his manners seemed to have improved as well, as Erik further surprised him by saying thank you!

"How far is it to where you live?" he asked.

"Not far," said Erik. "It's a village north of here called Gamla Uppsala, a place filled with dead Vikings and ancient burial mounds."

Bruguière chuckled. "Nice!"

"It's a long enough drive, plenty of time for the two of us to talk."

"Ah ha!" cried Bruguière with delight, knowing his letter with its cryptic message had piqued Erik's curiosity. Good! "Patience, my boy. All will be revealed in time."

"Patience, my arse!" Erik grumbled as the two of them got into the cart and headed home.

The drive through the country was everything Bruguière had expected – verdant farmlands, flowers peeping up from the ground, trees coming into bud, cattle and sheep grazing in pastures. They talked, too, but not once would Bruguière budge as to the nature of his news other than to say both Erik and Christine would be pleased with it. He wanted to wait until they were all gathered together. No sense in repeating himself unnecessarily, he said.

"You could have simply written about whatever it is in your letter," Erik pointed out.

"True, but where would be the fun in that? Besides, I needed to get away for a little bit. Do you have any idea how long it has been since I've enjoyed a true holiday? Years! More years than I care to think about. This way I am able to kill two birds with one stone – I get my holiday, and I get to see how you and your lovely bride are doing."

"So what you are saying is that, in essence, you are checking up on me?"

"If the mountain won't come to Muhammad, Muhammad must go to the mountain."

"Since the real reason for your visit must remain a secret for now, what else is there to discuss?"

"Don't you want to know how the others are doing?"

"What others?"

"The ones who helped you? Well, interested or not, I shall tell you just the same. Young Mlle Giry has made quite a catch, marrying a baron or something. All I remember is that the man has a hyphenated name that is quite a mouthful."

Erik couldn't help himself. In spite of his protestations, he was interested. "Is that all you know about him? I mean…they're really getting married, not just an arrangement like the elder de Chagny?"

"You mean Monsieur Philippe and La Sorelli? No, nothing like that. In fact, the wedding is to take place in La Madeleine."

Erik cocked an eyebrow. "Impressive."

"I suppose so, if such things impress you." Erik glanced over at him, and Bruguière flashed him a grin. "Oh come now. You deserve to be teased. You are far too serious for your own good."

Erik ignored the gentle jab. "Go on. What else?"

"It's been in all the papers that Little Meg's mother will be retiring. I'm sure this is in some way connected with her daughter marrying so well. Rumor has it that her future son-in-law is providing her with an elegant apartment on the Rue de Rivoli, as befits the mother of his bride."

_Good for her_, Erik thought. _Finally, the dear girl can relax and enjoy life_. It certainly had not been easy for her, having been widowed at an early age and left to fend for herself, and with a daughter to raise, too. Looking back, he was glad he had been able to offer whatever help he could. They may have been business partners of a kind, but behind it all, there had been some real friendship even though he had been loath to admit it at the time.

"Anything else?" he asked when Bruguière stopped talking.

"The young Vicomte de Chagny was married this spring."

Erik groaned, remembering with all too much clarity the pain his misunderstanding of Raoul's visit had provoked. "I trust the newlyweds are happy?" he asked, trying to sound disinterested and failing miserably.

"You can't fool me. You are as curious as any other man would be about his wife's former suitor. Yes, by all accounts they are very happy. In fact, I've heard that his wife is already increasing."

Erik scrunched his forehead into a puzzled frown. "Increasing what?"

Bruguière laughed. "You know. 'Increasing,' as she is in the family way. Must I spell everything out for you? The young gal is pregnant."

"Oh. Why didn't you just say so?"

As they approached Gamla Uppsala, the burial mounds Erik mentioned loomed into view.

"You weren't joking about them," Bruguière said, impressed with their size.

"Royal burial mounds," Erik explained. "According to the ancient lore, the gods Thor, Odin and Freyr are said to lay in them. Later, after the old gods were replaced by Christianity, it was thought that the mounds held the remains of three kings of the legendary House of Ynglings and given the names Aun's Mound, Adil's Mound and Egil's Mound."

"You've been studying your history."

"It helps to be informed."

"I should love to investigate more. Do you suppose we could walk about them while I'm here?"

"I'm sure Christine would like nothing better."

At last, they approached the house, with its border of spring blooming flowers and small welcoming party waiting at the door. Erik introduced Fru and Herr Nystrom. Christine, Bruguière already knew, and when she beamed a smile at him, he took her in his arms and gave her a fatherly peck on the cheek.

"You look like something out of a fairy tale!" he exclaimed, taking in her brightly colored local attire.

Christine laughed. "More like a country bumpkin, I suspect. Welcome to our humble home, 'Uncle' Édouard," she said, her eyes twinkling with delight. "We've got a special room made up for you."

The Nystroms greeted their guest with friendly enthusiasm, assuring him that the presence of one more person in the house would be no trouble at all. Oskar accepted Bruguière's hand, then excused himself and grabbed the bags, taking them into the house. Fru Nystrom curtsied and likewise excused herself, mentioning something about getting supper ready.

Erik, Christine and Bruguière remained outside a bit longer, chatting before heading inside. As they walked through the door, the attorney noticed a saucer of milk by the side of the door. "What's this? You have a cat?" Bruguière asked.

Erik rolled his eyes. "No. No cat. Either Christine or Fru Nystrom is feeding the gnomes or tomtes again."

"The what?"

Christine explained. "Tomtes are little people who are said to take care of a farmer's home and children. The tomtes protect them from misfortune, particularly at night when they are asleep. We put out the milk to thank them."

"And if you're really nice," added Erik, "maybe she'll take you to visit the troll who lives under the bridge, too."

-0-0-0-


	32. Chapter 32

To Be Loved

Chapter 32

HDL

"_A true friend is someone who thinks that you are a good egg even though he knows that you are slightly cracked."_

~ Bernard Meltzer

-0-0-0-

"All right, out with it! We've been patient long enough."

Everyone was seated at the dinner table, having finished off the delicious roast Fru Nystrom had prepared, and were now preparing to attack the nut cake before them. Once supper had been served, the older couple had bid everyone a good evening and headed for home, Christine assuring the good woman that she would take care of cleaning up. Now that the three of them were alone, Erik decided that enough was enough. It was time for explanations. Christine, surprised at Erik's outburst, raised her brows while Bruguière sat back and chuckled.

"Yes, yes, I'm sure you have been on pins and needles ever since I wrote," the attorney said with a sly grin. "I swear, Erik, you are in a chronic state of constitutional indignation."

Erik crossed his arms over his chest and narrowed his eyes, staring at Édouard as though he were an interesting specimen under the microscope. "Stop playing games," he growled.

"Mind your manners," his wife chided gently. Then she gave Bruguière a look that was a cross between a smirk and a scowl. "Honestly," she sighed. "I will never understand the way men act with one another. All this…this posturing! Look at both of you. You're acting like two dogs snapping over the same bone. It sets my nerves on edge."

Édouard remained unflappable, accustomed as he was to courtroom histrionics and dealing with people under duress. "You mustn't fret, dear lady. The truth is I have made your poor husband wait long enough."

"And…?" Erik prodded. "What is this good news that you couldn't put in writing and caused you to come all the way to Sweden to tell us?"

Clearing his throat, Bruguière announced, "Should you ever wish to return to France or Paris, you may do so with impunity."

"What?" Erik and Christine asked in unison.

"It's true. Monsieur Delacorte," he said with exaggerated formality, "you are no longer considered a parole breaker. Your sentence is hereby considered served, your debt to Society paid. In other words, you are a free man."

Erik blinked several times and then took a deep breath. Whatever was the man talking about? Had Bruguière gone daft? He had served only a few months of his five-year parole. How could it possibly be considered served?

"I have no wish to return to Paris," Erik said slowly, "but your news is…interesting. I am sure there is more to this. Would you care to elaborate?"

"Perhaps we should take care of this first," Christine said, pointing to the dessert. In spite of the earth-shattering news, she was determined to play the role of the good hostess and was pleased to note that the men were following her lead. She cut the cake and placed a dollop of whipped cream beside each slice, then passed out the dessert plates. After freshening everyone's cup of coffee, she then settled into her chair. This promised to be a good story. Coffee and dessert would be the perfect accompaniment.

Bruguière took a bite, pronounced the cake excellent, and began his story. "A few months after you left France, Chief Justice Montaigne summoned me to his chambers. Rumors had reached the old man that you had not been seen for quite a while, and he'd developed a strong suspicion that you had fled the country. As your parole officer, it was my responsibility to report your disappearance to the court. I knew there was the very real chance that I could find myself facing charges of contempt, at the very least, and came to that meeting filled with trepidation."

Erik whispered soft and low. "My apologies. I had not given any thought to the risks you were taking on my behalf."

Bruguière ignored him, stood up, and began to imitate Hèrcǔle Montaigne. Christine suppressed a giggle when Édouard hunched his shoulders and peered over his _pince nez_, exactly as the Chief Justice had done at Erik's trial. Changing his voice, Édouard now spoke in a tremulous, high-pitched whine.

"'Your client has disappeared, hasn't he,' demanded the judge, pointing his stubby finger in my face. 'He is violating his parole.'

"'Perhaps literally, but not in spirit,' I countered—_basso profundo, _of course_._

"The old man sniffed. ' Explain why I should not have you thrown behind bars!'

"My client, I explained, was ordered to stay away from the Opera Populaire for a period of five years. How much better for Monsieur Delacorte"—here he nodded in Erik's direction—"to avoid the premises of the opera house than by leaving the city? That is, by leaving the country all together?

"Monsieur Montaigne screwed up his face as he considered my words.

"'And what about that young singer Monsieur Delacorte was supposed to have abducted?' the old man shot back at me.

"I reminded his Honor that this had been a spurious charge of which my client was found innocent, that even Mlle Daaé and the Vicomte de Chagny had both testified that it was all a misunderstanding. However, Montaigne wasn't about to give up so easily.

"'Where is she?' he persisted. 'Are the stories true? I've heard that she has also fled the country.'

"Not so much fled, I replied, but followed her heart. Meaning that she has followed her maestro and the two of them are now living in Sweden. Happily married."

He grinned as he saw Christine and Erik share what they thought was a secret look, and abandoned all pretence at acting out the scene any further and simply explained the rest. "I could see the wheels as they were set into motion, as the judge put two and two together. Make no mistake, his Honor is no fool, but he understood that it was futile to pursue the man who has become the darling of Parisian literati." With a bow, he resumed his seat and took another bite of cake. "Might I have some more coffee to go with this delicious confection, my dear lady?"

Christine, still not quite believing what she had just heard, complied. "The darling of…what did you call Erik?"

"The darling of Parisian literati—the intellectual elite."

The vein on Erik's temple throbbed as he scowled. "Preposterous!"

"You're a hero, my boy," said Bruguière. "In the eyes of the public, you represent the finest example of the French spirit. Through your memoirs, you have become a folk hero by rising above your unfortunate circumstances." He hesitantly waved a finger at the omnipresent mask. "You've made something of yourself. Once the Society columns began to spread the rumors of your marriage to Christine, you became a romantic icon!"

Seeing the lack of comprehension in the blank stares greeting his words, Bruguière pressed on. "What can I say? We French cannot resist a love story. Christine could have had everything – fame, fortune, prestige, a title – but instead she chose to follow the man she loved into self-imposed exile. Why, there's even talk of turning your memoirs into an operetta, and performing it on the stage!"

Erik snorted. "I trust my attorney has entered an injunction against any such nonsense."

"Your attorney is protecting all your interests," he said calmly. "But here is the best part. Guillaume Agnelet. You remember him? The Advocate General who prosecuted your case?"

"How could I forget?"

"Well, he has intervened on your behalf with the highest authorities in the Republic. God knows, the Government can use all the good will it can garner, what with that man, Boulanger, stirring up trouble. There's even been talk of a military take over."

"It can't be true," Christine exclaimed, remembering the articles she'd recently been reading of the reactionary French general around whom were swirling rumors of a _coup d'état_, threatening the very existence of the Republic with a military dictatorship. "The French people will never accept such a situation. Not again." She shuddered, recalling the horror stories of the Communard a decade earlier.

"But back to my reason for coming here in person to talk to you," said Bruguière. "Chief Justice Montaigne publically recommended clemency for you and _La III__e__ République_ has acquiesced to public demand! Your sentence has been commuted."

Erik was dumbstruck, but Christine jumped up from her chair, clapping her hands in joy. "Oh, Erik !" she exclaimed, throwing her arms around his neck. "This is splendid!"

"And that, lady and gentleman, is how Monsieur Delacorte became a free man." Bruguière finished with a flourish, bowing his head low and rolling his hand in the air in an exaggerated gesture of respect.

"Why didn't you simply write to tell me this?" demanded Erik, gently disentangling himself from his wife's affections and assisting her back into her chair. "There was no need for you to come all the way to Gamla Uppsala!"

"I was trying to protect your privacy. As it was, I had to make a circuitous journey to throw off the reporters. Take that young pup, Gaston Leroux, for example. He is determined to make a name for himself in the papers. Moreover, if it's not him, then it will be another hanger-on. You have quite a following, Erik. Mark my words; if you don't want the public lining up outside your door for autographs, then I suggest that you and Christine continue to protect your privacy—at least until the next fad seizes the public interest."

Christine spoke up. "Édouard, you don't need an excuse to come and visit us. You are always welcome here." She leaned over the table to kiss his forehead, ignoring the rumbling such a sight elicited from her husband. "We owe all our happiness to you."

The grizzled attorney blinked rapidly, moved by her sincerity. "My dear lady, I haven't always treated you as well as I should have, which shames me. You are a good woman, and you have made my client very happy. Why, he hardly resembles the man I remember last summer! His chronic state of constitutional indignation I spoke of earlier seems to have dissipated. The improvement is nothing short of miraculous."

"Édouard," Erik said gruffly. "Do stop talking and finish eating your dessert." He stared at the nut cake a moment before adding, "Thank you for coming all the way here to bring us the news. I'm sure you had better things to do with your time than check on me."

"But since you are here," said Christine, "I hope you brought comfortable clothing for hill walking. We are planning to take you on a tour of the countryside tomorrow."

Erik nodded. "Get plenty of rest tonight, old man. My wife has a full day planned tomorrow."

-0-0-0-

Dawn, in the form of an incessantly crowing rooster, came much too early as far as Édouard Bruguière was concerned. He responded to the bird by hurling several colorful oaths at it, while his feathered nemesis gleefully ignored them and cock-a-doodled to its heart's content, leaving the hapless sleeper with nothing else to do but pull a pillow over his head. _Merde!_ That rooster must be perched right outside his bedroom window! Eventually he managed to ignore the bird and was just dozing back to sleep when there came loud knocking at his door.

"Go away!" he groused.

"Wake up, sleepy head," said a chipper voice on the other side of the door. It was Christine.

"What time is it?" Bruguière moaned.

His question was answered with lilting laughter. "Time for slug-a-beds to rise and shine!"

This elicited another groan from Bruguière. The woman must be mad, he thought. She was too damned cheerful, especially for this hour. Why, it must be nearly seven o'clock!

"This isn't Paris," she said when he did not answer her. "Up here, people don't sleep until noon. We're good country folk. The sun is up and there's work to be done. Or did you forget that we were going to have an early start?"

Bruguière forced himself to sit up in bed and tried to remember everything that was said last night. Cursed if he could remember anything about rising early, but who was he to question the lady of the house? He stretched and mumbled, "In a few minutes," then sniffed the air. What was that he smelled? Whatever it was, the aroma delicious and his stomach responded by growling appreciatively.

"Is someone preparing breakfast?" he asked.

"Yes. Fru Nystrom is making something special," Christine answered. "You'd better hurry before Erik eats it all."

He laughed to himself as he heard her walk away. Quickly washing and dressing in an old but comfortable suit of country clothes. Snippets of the conversation after dessert came back to him. What was it they had discussed? Something about hill climbing? He shrugged. Surely, Mme Delacorte would refresh his memory in her own good time. Finally, he made his way to the kitchen, where he was astounded at the feast that had been prepared.

"This is _frukost_," Fru Nystrom started to explain in broken French, pointing to various dishes to make her words understood. "Breakfast will give you strength. One must eat well to prepare for the day's work." There were hot beverages (his choice of coffee or tea), as well as cool fruit juices. Then there were the breads (_bröd _she called it), various cheeses, eggs and a platter of what looked to a kind of fried meat. "That is _strömming,_" she said, reverting to Swedish, unable to come up with the appropriate French words.

"Fresh Baltic herring fried in butter and topped with parsley," Erik interpreted with a grin. "Go ahead. Dig right in," he said, filling his own plate.

"This is enough food for an army," Bruguière commented, eyeing the groaning board. His mouth was watering from the savory fragrances wafting over through the room.

"You'll need it," Erik said, taking a bite of eggs. "Christine is quite the grand marshal when it comes to touring the countryside."

Christine beamed while Édouard stole a glance at her. Once again, he was struck by how she had changed since last he saw her. Gone were the traces of a gamine, replaced with the womanly figure before him.

"Country life agrees with you," he said approvingly.

"Married life agrees with me," she responded, throwing a flirtatious wink at her husband.

"I've never seen a happier couple," Édouard continued, heaping his plate with the Swedish cuisine like a gourmand explorer intent on discovering strange new foods to tease the palate. Fru Nystrom nodded approvingly, and commented softly in Swedish while watching him make his selections. Bruguière looked to Christine to translate.

Christine dabbed daintily at her lips with her napkin. "Our housekeeper says she's glad someone is enjoying the fruits of her labors. She's always complaining that Erik doesn't eat enough to keep a bird alive."

Erik paused, his mouth full of food, and swallowed hard. He gave Christine a devilish look, and offered, "On the contrary. I am famished this morning. I must have worked up quite an appetite…somehow."

Bruguière wasn't about to let that remark go past him. "That comes as no surprise to me. I had to put a pillow over my head, what with all the ruckus you two were making last night." He glanced defiantly. "Oh, stop blushing—both of you! We French know a thing or two about love. You have my most sincere admiration for your…uhm…your energetic demonstrations of affection."

Erik smirked, obviously pleased with himself, while Christine giggled behind her napkin. Meanwhile, Fru Nystrom was keeping busy, packing a picnic lunch for her employers and their friend. No one would go hungry today.

-0-0-0-

That afternoon was spent seeing the sights. Christine was in her element, not merely pointing out interesting sights, but adding color by relating the stories and legends associated with the various places. She surprised Bruguière with her lively conversation and her witty commentary. Back when he first made her acquaintance, he thought her vapid and immature, but she had grown into the kind of woman who made him reconsider his bachelorhood. Without a doubt, she had a curious and disciplined mind, as well as insight and beauty. He could see now why Erik had fallen in love with her, and he had to admit to himself that he was envious of Erik's good fortune.

He also learned that Christine hadn't been joking about hill climbing. By the end of the day, she had seen to it that they'd climbed all three of the burial mounds, and Bruguière felt himself dragging.

"Please, dear lady, have pity on an old, decrepit man," he pleaded.

Erik scoffed. "You are many things, Édouard, but decrepit is not one of them."

"Ah, you forget that while you were running up and down the stairs at the Opera Populaire, I was sitting at a desk, my most strenuous exercise that of pushing a pen."

"I'll grant you that," Erik acquiesced. "But you must admit that the fresh air is doing you some good. Your courtroom pallor is disappearing."

"Perhaps I have pushed him a bit much," Christine said with concern. "Very well. Let us return home. I'm sure that Édouard would like to see what you've been up to these long winter months."

-0-0-0-

Back at the house, Erik stood patiently off to the side while Bruguière read the manuscript. When he had been showing his guest around the house, Bruguière had immediately spied the huge manuscript on the desk and had been dying to get his hands on it.

"You have been prolific!" Bruguière said, taking up the huge sheaf of paper. "May I read this?"

Erik scowled. He was not accustomed to having his work read in his presence, and was uncertain how he would receive criticism, however constructive it might be intended. At the same time, he was eager to hear what his literary agent and friend had to say about it. "Yes. Please, read it. You must be honest in your analysis, though. I fear I may have been a little too imaginative."

Bruguière laughed good-naturedly when Erik poised himself to hover over his shoulder. "Too imaginative? Nonsense, my boy," he said, dismissing Erik and his concerns with a sweeping wave of the hand. "Inventive tales of derring-do are exactly what the public wants." He found a seat and began to read, losing track of time while Erik distracted himself by drawing caricatures of his old friend, taking advantage of the many expressions that passed over Édouard's face as he read.

"_C'est incroyable!"_ the attorney exclaimed enthusiastically more than once. "You are going to make both of us very rich!"

"Both?" Erik asked with a frown. Then he realized what Bruguière meant. "Oh, I forgot about your share of the profits." Of course, it was money well spent, and he was glad that it was going to his friend.

By the time supper was announced, Bruguière had finished the manuscript and pronounced it certain to be a best seller. Erik felt quite proud of himself for having produced a book that was entertaining enough to hold the attention of a man such as Édouard. Then, the two of them joined Christine downstairs. Erik held her chair for her, and kissed her on the cheek before sitting down at the head of the table.

The table was laden with serving dishes filled with the Delacortes' favorite dishes, as well as a few that they had asked Fru Nystrom to prepare in honor of their visitor. Not the least among them was a casserole of caribou meatballs heaping with plenty of potatoes and a savory sauce. Erik allowed himself a moment of pride at being able to provide such a hearty repast for his wife and friend.

"The fruits of my labors," he said with a chuckle.

"Indeed," Bruguière said agreeably. "And so, my dear hostess, what are you doing with your time—besides decorating this fine house?" he asked as he sat down to eat.

Christine, with a twinkle in her eye, replied. "I'm working on a little surprise. Erik isn't the only writer in the family. Perhaps you might be interested in being my agent as well." Both men stared at her, curiosity as to her meaning written over their faces. "I'm speaking of my memoirs! _Tales of the Phantom's Wife: The Woman Behind the Man Behind the Mask_."

Erik nearly choked on the food in his mouth, while Bruguière blanched. "Is she serious?" he asked Erik. Then he turned to Christine. "Does your book mention any _names_ or incriminate _anyone_?"

Christine could not stop herself from laughing. "Look at you! You're both terrified at the thought that I would reveal all your little secrets. Calm down, both of you. I'm only joking. Oh, I do keep a diary, but it is strictly for my own amusement and is nothing that will ever see the light of day."

Good food, good conversation, and good friends. It was exactly the way Erik had always imagined having a real, living wife and home would be. He could feel the breath catch in his throat as he realized he had everything he had ever wanted, at last.

-0-0-0-

After supper, the three of them retired to the parlor where a warm fire greeted them. Candles were lit on the mantelpiece and on the windowsills, casting their inviting glow over the simple furnishings. Erik picked up the poker and stirred the coals, sending a haze of tiny sparks floating up the chimney.

Christine made herself comfortable on the settee and pulled a lap blanket across her knees. "Oskar thinks of everything," she said appreciatively, indicating the glowing embers. In the firelight, the rose-colored choker that she always wore took on the color of the flames. Occasionally, she touched it as she spoke, fingering the heart-shaped pendant that dangled at her throat. "Even though it's nearly summer, the evenings can be quite chilly."

"So I noticed. I was grateful for that down quilt last night," Bruguière said with a playful shiver. A thought crossed his mind. "While we were out today, I could not help but notice stacks of wood piled here and there around the village. And now, there are people running around carrying faggots and lighting bonfires. I've never seen such a curious sight in all my life. Whatever are they doing?" he asked. "Burning down the village?"

"Yes," Erik replied drolly. "The villagers will be coming for me, the monster, with pitchforks and torches. You will need to run for your life."

"Oh Erik!" Christine sighed. "You do so love to exaggerate. No, Édouard, there will be no rampaging villagers. Today is the eighteenth of May. _Eriksmäss._ King Erik's day. Although the day is not much observed in the cities because of its ties to Catholicism, many of the country folk still follow the old ways. There is farmer's saying that goes _Om Erik ger ax ger Olof kaka_, which means 'If Erik provides ears of rye, then Olof will provide bread.'"

"And that means…what?" asked Bruguière, not making any sense of it.

"Meaning that if the autumn crops have sprouted by this date, then the farmers will reap the harvest in time to bake bread on Olof's name day, which comes at the end of July."

"Hmm, this Erik fellow seems quite popular."

"So popular that his people beheaded him," Erik added. "Quite a nice way of displaying their affection, don't you think?"

"But he did have a wife named Kristina," Christine added, grinning at her husband.

"Enough ghoulish tales," said Erik. "I'm sure Édouard did not travel all the way up here to listen to such stories."

"So, tell me," said Édouard, changing the topic, "is there any chance we will be hearing the pitter-patter of little feet in the nursery any time soon?"

"No," said Erik a little too quickly. "What I mean is…not any time soon."

Bruguière wondered if perhaps he had accidentally stumbled upon a sore spot, for when he looked at Christine's face, he saw the oddest expression, one filled with love and longing…and sadness. Whatever it was, however, was gone in seconds, replaced by her usual cheery expression.

"We will take what happiness we can with each other," she said, "and let things take their own course."

Erik glanced at his wife and silently thanked her. The atmosphere in the room had become heavy, and with a sudden inspiration, he decided that what was needed was music to lighten the mood that had come over them. He took up the nykelharpa and showed it proudly to Édouard. "Christine's father had one like this when she was a child. She has a certain fondness, a nostalgia if you will, for folk music."

"It makes me happy," she explained, seating herself close beside him. "Its simplicity, its innocence, and its sweet melodies speak to me in a way that opera music never did. Don't misunderstand me. I loved the opera, but after Erik left, the music lost its appeal for me. I realized that he had been the heart of it for me." She leaned towards him as he began to tune the instrument, drawn irresistibly to Erik and his music.

"_Rinnländer_, or _Spel-Göran's Walz_?" he asked his wife, naming two of her favorite songs.

"Neither," she replied, shaking her head. "Something more cheerful. How about _Engelska_?"

He nodded, and put the bow to the strings. Soon, she rested her head on his hip as he played, the two of them lost in the music. They did not even notice when Édouard slipped out of the room, leaving them alone to enjoy their privacy.

-0-0-0-


	33. Chapter 33

**To Be Loved**

**Chapter 33**

**November 21, 2010**

HDL

"_Passion; it lies in all of us, sleeping... waiting... and though unwanted... unbidden... it will stir... open its jaws and howl. It speaks to us... guides us... passion rules us all, and we obey. What other choice do we have? Passion is the source of our finest moments. The joy of love... the clarity of hatred... and the ecstasy of grief. It hurts sometimes more than we can bear. If we could live without passion maybe we'd know some kind of peace... but we would be hollow... Empty rooms shuttered and dank. Without passion we'd be truly dead." _

~Joss Whedon

-0-0-0-

It took only a few days for Bruguière to adapt to country living, going so far as to try to make friends with the rooster, but the noble bird would have nothing to do with him and would scamper off whenever the human approached. He had originally planned to stay only a couple of days, long enough to pass along the good news and to reassure himself that all was as it should be, but his host and hostess insisted that he remain at least a few weeks. Having spent all his life in the city, Bruguière quickly acquiesced and found the rural experience stimulating. When Sunday came around, he was surprised to learn that Erik Delacorte not only attended church, but also was playing the part of choirmaster, no less!

"Why should this surprise you?" asked Christine on their way home from church, knowing full well that such a thing would have been unthinkable with the "old" Erik, but unable to resist plying a response from Bruguière. "You may recall that my husband is a very talented musician."

"What he means is that he is surprised the roof did not fall in," interjected Erik, enjoying the good-natured banter. "I would have expected the Lord to have been angry by the chicanery of a miscreant like me having the audacity to set foot upon His hallowed ground."

Bruguière chuckled. "The priest probably sanctifies everything you touch the moment you leave."

"That isn't funny," Christine fussed, feigning indignation. "Besides, Lutherans don't have priests. We have ministers." She added an exaggerated huff. "My husband has every right to be in church, if he wants to be!"

"You're quite right, of course, Madame," said Bruguière. "My apologies." He sketched a bow, unable to hide the snigger that snuck out.

"I only go to hear my wife sing," Erik said. "And to have a chance to play the organ. Didn't that man in Bremen—What was his name, Christine? Emil?—say that religion is a private matter, between God and me?"

"Something like that." She turned to Bruguière, slipping her arm through his in easy friendship. "You should hear him on the organ in the cathedral in Uppsala. It's only an hour or two by wagon, so we don't go there as often as I'd like, but I dare say Erik looks forward to it as much as I do. Perhaps before you leave, we'll have a chance to go there."

Erik sighed happily. "That organ is a masterpiece in itself. And you should hear Christine sing there! I could die tomorrow a happy man," he added wistfully, "having heard her voice in a place with such grand acoustics."

And so they continued all the way home.

The next day, Bruguière was up bright and early. No waiting for the cock to crow this time, as his internal clock had already adapted to the earlier hours. "So there," he said to the bird when he made it out of bed ahead of his winged nemesis. Down in the kitchen, breakfast was waiting.

"And what are your plans for the day?" he asked Erik between sips of coffee.

"I plan to devote my time putting the finishing touches on the manuscript, polishing it up so that you can take it with you when you return to Paris."

"I see. Hmm…and you, Madame?"

Christine smiled warmly. "Oh, you know that old saying about how a man may work from sun to sun, but a woman's work is never done. Well, that is what Fru Nystrom and I will be doing today—woman's work."

"Oh," Bruguière said, a little disappointed that everyone was going to be occupied, at least for a while. Then an idea occurred to him. "I suppose I could do a little exploring on my own. Wouldn't want to get underfoot."

-0-0-0-

The chill of night dissipated quickly, and by the time Bruguière set out on his walk, the air was turning pleasantly warm. He had no specific destination in mind other than to enjoy the lovely spring day and feel the kiss of the sun warm against his skin. First, he examined the garden. He recognized a few of the herbs growing by the kitchen door from those his own housekeeper kept on hand for seasoning the dishes she prepared for her employer. Next to the herbs was the vegetable patch with hardy cold-weather crops already in place – lettuces, cabbages, carrots – surrounded by little cages to keep the furry folk away. Around the foundation and lining the path to the door, pastel-colored flowers were coming into bloom.

Once out past the gate, he wandered aimlessly, smiling and greeting the villagers as they made their way to and from their various tasks. At one point, he glanced up and was surprised to find Christine and Fru Nystrom heading in his direction.

"Good day, ladies," he said, doffing his cap. "I thought I left the two of you to domestic mysteries of the kitchen. And where might you be heading?"

The women smiled and returned his greeting.

"We're off to milk Fru Nystrom's nanny goats," Christine said. "Normally Oskar takes care of this, but he's busy fixing something on the cart, so we volunteered to help. Would you care to join us?"

Bruguière had never seen a goat milked before and decided it might be worth seeing. He eagerly joined them on the short walk up the road to the Nystrom farm.

"Perhaps I can help? It can't be too hard to milk a goat. What should I do first?" he asked when they arrived. He scanned the landscape and saw to their left a penned-in area, filled with goats. From the expressions on their faces, it was obvious that they were extremely inquisitive animals and were bleating their hearts out, demanding attention. He laughed. They looked so damned cute, and all he could think of was the story he'd heard of the three billy goats gruff. He went over to pat one on the top of its head.

Fru Nystrom chuckled and said something in Swedish.

"What did she say?"

"That you should be careful," replied Christine. "Goats are terribly curious, and they'll eat just about anything. If you don't watch yourself, one of them might decide to munch on your shirt cuffs."

"Maybe I'll hold off on making closer acquaintance with the creatures, then" he said, backing away, but not before one of the goats had grabbed hold of the hem of his jacket. It took a couple hard tugs to get it away, but not before a loud ripping sound was heard.

Christine inspected the damage. "Don't worry," she said. "It's not too bad. I'll fix it when we get home."

The two women proceed to give a crash course in goat milking. They showed Bruguière the milking stand, a wood stanchion with a neck gate that held the animal in place while it was being milked. In front of the neck gate was a bar that held a small grain bucket filled with tasty oats to distract the goat.

"Looks like a little guillotine," he said. "Are you sure we're not going to have goat chops?" When Christine translated Bruguière's remarks, Fru Nystrom let out a loud laugh.

"Now, we bring the goats – one at a time. Grab one by the collar," explained Fru Nystrom by way of Christine.

Bruguière looked more closely and sure enough, noticed that the goats did indeed have collars. He led one out of the pen, surprised at how docile it was but accepting Christine's help just in case the goat changed its mind, and the two of them led it over to the milking stand. The goats were used to the routine, however, and easily did as they were directed. While Christine and Bruguière were putting the goat in place, Fru Nystrom brought a bucket of warm water from the kitchen. She wrung out a cloth and handed it to the attorney.

"Wash the udder and the teats," she said, Christine once again translating.

Bruguière looked down at the goat. "You want me to…to _touch_ them?"

Christine laughed this time. "Come, come, Monsieur. You're a Frenchman, are you not? Surely you are not embarrassed to wash a poor nanny goat's teats!"

His face flushed with embarrassment, he did as instructed.

Next, a clean bucket was placed on the stand, slightly in front of the goat's udder, while Bruguière took a seat on the milking stool. Christine demonstrated the next part. "You wrap your thumb and forefinger around the base of the teat, tightly, like this. You want to trap the milk inside the teat. Good. Now, squeeze—first with your middle finger, then with your ring finger, and then your little finger—all in one easy motion."

Bruguière shook his head. This was far more complicated than he'd thought it would be.

Christine continued. "Now, be sure to direct the first squeeze from each teat outside the bucket, either on the ground or at that waiting, eager cat. No! Don't pull on the teat! This will hurt the goat, and next thing you know, she'll try to pull her head out and end up stepping in the pail."

"Oh, sorry. I'll try again."

"Relax your grip now and allow milk to refill the teat. Good. Now see if you can alternate, with one teat being squeezed while the other refills. Yes, that's it. With enough practice, you will find your own rhythm."

By the time they were milking the third goat, Bruguière indeed had found his rhythm and was actually enjoying himself. When they finished the last goat, Bruguière thanked the ladies for allowing him to help and said he was heading back to the house.

"What? You're not going to stay and help us make cheese?" Christine asked.

"I think I've done enough of playing farmer for today."

Back at the house, he washed and changed, then decided to check on Erik's progress.

"What were you doing, rolling in cow manure?" Erik asked teasingly, making a point of wrinkling his nose.

"I was learning how to milk goats."

"A talent you will find great use for back in Paris."

The attorney grinned. "Yes, that is what your good housekeeper suggested." He quickly changed the subject. "Is the manuscript ready for me?"

"But of course." Erik handed over the neatly bundled pages. "This one will make our fortune. Plenty of adventure with the requisite damsels in distress. Now then, perhaps we can go over a few contracts and codicils before you return. You said you brought some papers for me to sign?"

"Yes, contracts and such. If you'd like we can also go over your accounts so I can more easily have your funds deposited in them, maybe draw up a will. You are, after all, a married man now. Later, we can get your wife's signature where needed, and the Nystroms can be the witnesses."

They spent the next several hours closeted away in the study, oblivious to the return of the women until the aroma of another delectable meal signaled it was time for supper.

All too soon, the time Bruguière had allowed for his holiday came to an end. "It is time I returned to Paris," he announced at the end of three weeks. "If there is anything either of you need, do not hesitate to let me know. Write if it is not an emergency; if it is, send a telegram. No need for subterfuge anymore."

"We shall be fine. You needn't worry," Erik replied.

"Just the same, if for any reason you need anything…and I mean _any_thing, you get in touch with me right away."

"Of course we will," Christine promised, kissing him on both his ruddy cheeks. "You're a part of our family now."

-0-0-0-

In the days that followed Bruguière's departure, Erik began to pay more attention to his home and the people around him. Thanks to his old friend's approbation, he saw them more clearly and had a newfound sense of appreciation for all that he had. Where once he had only accorded them a passing nod, he now made an effort to speak to the Nystroms and express an interest in them. Much to Christine's delight, he lingered by her side after church on Sundays, rather than heading directly for their buggy to make straight for the house.

One day, he surprised her with the acacia seeds that he had tucked away long ago in Paris as a keepsake of their picnics in the park. They planted them in pots of rich soil and took great pains to help them grow on a warm windowsill in the kitchen. By midsummer, the secondary leaves were already starting to sprout.

"I'm taking a break from writing before starting the next book," he explained one evening after supper. "I thought I might practice my music." He surprised her with a few adaptations of folk tunes that would be appropriate for the upcoming Midsummer festival.

"You're offering to play? At the festival?" she asked, delighted by this turn of events.

"Of course. You'll be singing, won't you? I'd not miss the opportunity to accompany you…." The old hurt and suspicion crept into his eyes. "That is, unless you had other plans."

She threw herself into his arms and held him tight. "Don't be absurd! Oh, Erik! You've made me so happy. And you'll have fun, too, I promise you. There will be food and dancing—"

"—and you'll be singing—"

"—while you play! There will be a Maypole—"

"In June? Why isn't it called a 'Junepole'?"

"It's a tradition! And weddings, too! I hear that the Nystroms' niece is to be married. She and her fiancé will symbolize the marriage of the old gods. The men will decorate their walking staffs with oak leaves and ribbons, and the girls will wear wreaths of lavender and barley on their heads. It's a time of love, nurture and the celebration of new life. There will be bonfires, too!"

"Fru Nystrom calls it 'Thing-tide.' Sounds like a pagan ritual, if you ask me. Are you sure Pastor Kristofferson approves?" he asked, thinking of the rector of the ancient cathedral in Gamla Uppsala.

"Of course! He'll be officiating at the wedding!"

"Well, as long as there is no human sacrifice…."

"Don't be absurd. We Scandinavians gave that up years ago, along with Viking raids. At least in public."

Christine took great delight in sharing the local myths and legends with her husband, but one custom that she neglected to mention was that the country folk believed Midsummer was a time of greater awareness of the occult. Folklore held that secrets would be revealed through dreams, and in order to increase one's perception, small bags called "dream pillows" were sewn, filled with St. John's Wort (which was believed to hold magical properties) and placed under the bed pillow each night. In keeping with tradition, she had made one of the mystical pillows for herself and one for Erik. She embroidered them with their monogram and with elaborate roses in silk thread of every color she could find. They were exquisite.

The first night, Erik had a vivid dream, which was repeated with increasing intensity as Midsummer approached. His dreams were powerful visions in which he was chasing Christine through the forest. Occasionally, she stole glances over her shoulder, making sure he was in pursuit. She was leading him somewhere…and he instinctively knew it would be somewhere they could be alone. As they ventured deeper and deeper into the forest, she was running without explanation—and no longer wearing clothing. She was nubile and unencumbered. Long tresses of her strawberry hair flowed behind her as she ran.

He lost sight of her when he looked down and realized with a shock that he was also stark naked. Miraculously, his body no longer bore the scars of a brutal youth, but was perfect in every way. He reached up to touch his death's head, and realized with a start that even his face was unscathed. Gone were the ragged wounds that covered the right side of his head; he was unblemished from head to toe. There was no need for a wig; his own healthy hair hung about his shoulders like a lion's mane. In his dreams, at least, he was handsome. He was, at last, a worthy match. The thought of it sent a surge of desire coursing through his veins, a burning heat that drove him deeper into the forest. He had to be near her.

Searching for her, he came to a glade. At the eastern end was a pool of crystal-clear water filled by a cool, refreshing waterfall. It was exactly the way he had imagined the Garden of Eden—an idyllic spot of natural grace and beauty. The water murmured a welcome, and he drew closer, seeking Christine. Wild strawberries cushioned his footsteps; he reached down and plucked a few, popping them into his mouth to savor their tangy sweetness.

There she was, not far away, standing in the pool and letting the waterfall wash over her. Her long wet hair covered her naked breasts, and she ran her hands down the length of her torso and lower, well aware of the effect she was having on him. She beckoned to him to join her.

The water was cool, but not nearly cold enough to dampen his ardor. He crushed her to his body and kissing her fervently, whispering seductively as he kissed her shoulders. She pulled herself onto him and they coupled there in the sanctity of his dream. He had never known such abandon, such passion. He filled her with his seed over and over again—and she moaned with desire, which only spurred him on. He grazed her throat with his teeth when she wrapped her legs around his waist and ground herself against him, urging him on as she clung to him.

He woke in a lather, sweating profusely from the vigorous lovemaking in his dream, taut with desire. Christine lay beside him sound asleep. She clutched his shoulder and nestled closer to him as he stirred.

"What's wrong?" she muttered, not yet awake.

He ached with need of her, but chastely kissed her on the top of the head. "Shhh. Everything is fine. Sleep now."

She threw a leg over his, and it was all he could do not to pin her to the sheets and take her as he had in his dream, without restraints or barriers of any sort. She'd talked about it enough, had often encouraged him to abandon his carefully maintained self-control and simply _take_ what he wanted.

But he couldn't. He had to take care of her, to protect her…from himself. "You don't know what you're asking," he had told her. "I could hurt you."

She had tried to dismiss his concerns. "I'm a woman—your wife—not some porcelain doll. You'd never hurt me. Don't you see? I know that you'll never do anything I don't want you to do. Besides, I can always say 'stop' and you'll—"

"Don't you understand?" he had snapped, before refusing to discuss it any further. And so, they continued to make love tenderly and carefully in total darkness, despite Christine's wish to see her husband's face as he reached completion. It was enough for both of them. It had to be.

Still, there was that dream of his, which recurred with increasing frequency as Midsummer approached. In the dream, the two of them were enraptured in broad daylight, in the middle of the forest, in their secret garden.

Perhaps, one day, it could be more than a dream.

-0-0-0-

As the summer solstice grew near, the nights were shorter and shorter until there was no darkness at all. His vivid dreams continued, but they weren't always carnal. Surprisingly, Erik sometimes dreamed of a small girl who, though unblemished, he recognized as his own flesh and blood. She had Christine's reddish-blonde hair, his own mismatched eyes, and the voice of an angel. In his dreams, the innocent child loved him without reservation. She thought of him only as her father, and had no inkling of the monster he believed himself to be.

These dreams made him anxious, and he contemplated their meaning. What it if were possible to give Christine the child she longed for? He had been so certain that any offspring of his would be like him that it hadn't occurred to him that a child could be like Christine. Confused, he turned to Music once again, pouring his energy into it as he mulled over the meaning of the dreams. He spent so much time practicing that the calluses on his fingers sometimes became ragged and bled, while his wrists and forearms swelled from overuse. Consequently, Christine often massaged his hands and forearms after he had been playing for several hours.

"You don't have to practice so much," she tsked. "You're already the greatest musician these people have ever heard."

"I'm not doing this for them," he growled. "I'm doing this for the music."

She smiled at him. "I know," she said softly, as she rubbed soothing oil into his swollen hands and wrists. "I know."

It was true. She understood that he had been pouring his pent-up energy into his music. Music had been his succor, his sustenance, and his lover before she claimed him for her own. She would always share him with Music and with his work. She and the Fine Arts were the great loves of his life, and she couldn't imagine that anything would change that.

On Midsummer's Eve, Erik and Christine took the shortest path towards the Thing, the Gathering Place. Held within the ring of burial mounds of ancient kings, the festival began as a solemn procession of country and city folk alike carrying bundles of sticks for the bonfire and dressed in brightly colored peasant garments. Red and yellow were predominant colors, both in clothing and in ribbons that bedecked men and women alike. Men wore crowns of oak leaves and fluttering ribbons tied just below the knee, while the women wore their ribbons twined into crowns of barley, lavender, and St. John's Wort.

Erik looked at his own plain poet's shirt, which Christine had insisted on tying with a gaily-colored ribbon. "Is this really necessary?" he asked as he fingered the red grosgrain. He adjusted the mask and wig, ensuring that they were properly in place. "I look ridiculous," he muttered.

She shook her head. "I think you look very handsome. Remember; it's a celebration!" She ruffled the hem of her _bunad_, a traditional dress with fancy embroidery on the bodice, and let Erik catch sight of her slender ankles as she glanced over her shoulder at him.

His heart beat a little faster as he remembered his dreams. Images of Christine enticing him and luring him into the woods flooded unbidden into his conscious awareness.

"Are you all right?" she asked, noticing that he seemed a little dazed.

"I'm…um…it's a little warm today, out here in the sun."

"I told you that you wouldn't need a coat. Aren't you glad you listened to me? It will be bright and warm like this for several days."

The festival was all that Christine had promised, and more. No one paid any mind to the mask Erik wore; if they noticed it, they were too polite to mention it. His contribution to the festival—his exquisite music—was enough to earn him their respect and gratitude. The fact that Christine loved him was evident, and it inspired their trust in him.

He cut a dashing figure of a strolling minstrel as he played the lively tunes for folk dancing, and he played tirelessly while Christine sang many of her favorite songs. He gave up trying to hide on the fringes of the crowd and let himself bask in the moment when she dedicated a love song to him. Eventually, she pulled the nykelharpa from his hands and led him to the center of the clearing, so that they could join the dance. "Follow me," she said. "Unlike those formal dances at the opera house, there are no rules here."

She had never looked lovelier. She held his hand high and led him to the Maypole, a tall tree stripped of branches and set into the ground so that it stood straight up. It was decorated at the top with a wreath of greenery and flowers. From the tip of the pole, several dozen wide ribbons cascaded almost to the ground. Each of the dancers took hold of one of the ribbons, and while the men sang the _Frog Song_, the dancers wove the ribbons in and out, over and under one another, wrapping them around the pole until the ends were reached. Then, the ribbons were tied in a large bow near the base. One final song, with everyone holding hands in a circle around the Maypole, and the crowd parted ways for the journey home.

Erik was surprised to see some of the young couples splitting away from the path that led back towards town and to modest farms along the way. "Where are they going?" he asked his wife.

She gave him a knowing look and then stood tiptoe to whisper in his ear. "They want to be alone." She brushed his ear lobe as she spoke, sending a shock of electricity throughout his body.

He stood, frozen to the spot, as she walked ahead a few paces, and watched, transfixed, as she shook her hair loose from its pins and then replaced the crown of flowers that she had carefully woven. A glance over her shoulder told him all he needed to know. Raw passion surged within him, a tide of barely bridled carnal energy that threatened to flow out of control. It was as though his dreams were coming to life.

Once they were quite alone, she stepped off the path and led Erik deep into the verdant forest. The susurration of flowing water met the ear, and soon, a small opening revealed a rill that filled a spring-fed pool. A red hind and her mate, a magnificent hart, stood on alert near the edge of the water. They started at the couple's approach and bolted into the forest.

Surrounded by tall rushes, moss-covered rocks, and ferns, it was as idyllic as the setting revealed to him in his dreams. Erik marveled at the discovery. "I never knew this was here!"

"You've been so busy writing your book that you never took time to explore." She laughed sweetly, taking him by the hand and leading him to the pond. "It's just like in the fairy tales, isn't it? Can't you imagine the _näcken_ over there, half-immersed in the water while he plays a siren's song on his fiddle?"

He shook the nykelharpa case before setting it down on a flat stone, then turned to find that Christine had sat down and was taking off her shoes and stockings. "What are you doing?"

"I intend to dip my toes in the water. C'mon. This is our place. We should enjoy it."

"You'll get your dress wet."

"Not if I take it off," she said in a sultry voice, looking every inch the vixen.

Without a word, he plopped down beside her, unlaced his walking boots and folded his socks down over his ankles. He stuck them in the boots and set them aside primly before rolling his pants legs over his knees. He eased a toe into the water, surprised to find that it was a pleasant temperature. "Hot springs?" he asked.

She nodded and rubbed her dainty foot over his, gauging his reaction. "Sweden has many of them. How lucky we are to have one on our own property."

"You found this when you were out on your walks?"

Another nod. "It's my sanctuary. I often come here in the afternoon, when you are busy working."

"I'm never too busy for you," he said, shivering as she caressed the length of his legs with her toes. "If you keep that up," he said with a growl, "I won't be responsible for what happens."

A raised brow, an inviting smile, and a toss of her head was all it took. Their clothes were removed in a frenzy of activity and flung atop the cattails behind them. They slid into the water, surprised to find it deeper than it had appeared. She floated on her back and paddled away from him.

The chase was on. One, two quick strokes and he was beside her, capturing her in his arms and holding her at the surface of the water as he kicked his powerful legs to keep them both afloat. Although it was well past midnight, patches of light pierced the forest canopy, making her twin, white breasts glisten like wet pearls. She was irresistible. He kissed them both, using the tip of his tongue to tease the hardened nipples, and then seized her ruby lips for a deep, lingering kiss.

He made no protest when she put her fingers on the edge of his mask, silently asking his permission. He held her gaze, never once looking away as she slowly removed it and tossed it and the hated wig onto the shore. Gone were his defenses. He was hers, and he felt no shame in it. Being exposed to her in all his hideousness—and seeing nothing but acceptance in return—made him want her all the more.

Gently, tenderly, she held his cadaverous head in her two heavenly hands and softly kissed each of his terrible scars, oblivious to the horror of it. "I love you," she whispered, as he shed the last of his reservations.

He guided them to the shallows where his feet touched the rocky bottom, turning her in his arms to bring their bodies together. This time, there was no holding back.

She gasped as he entered her. She had never felt him this way before—so feral, so completely unself-conscious. Never had they allowed themselves to come this close to completion before Erik withdrew. She knew from his trembling that he was close to the edge, ever so close. "You…we have no…are you sure? What if…." She could speak no more; she was swept away by it, by what was about to happen.

"I want you," he moaned, barely able to contain himself another moment. "I want you like I've never wanted anything before."

He maneuvered her to the shore, where they lay in a bed of moss as he poured his seed into her. Hot tears ran down the side of her face as she wept for joy.

To her delight, her husband recovered quickly and devoted his ministrations to her fulfillment. She cried out his name as wave upon wave of ecstasy washed over her and flooded her senses with a thousand points of pure delight. The sight and sound of it propelled him to a second completion.

Holding each other close, they basked in the afterglow. He stayed buried within her, reluctant to leave her warmth, easing his weight onto his elbows so he wouldn't crush her. When he could speak, he whispered, "Why did we wait so long?"

"I only found this place a few days ago," she said softly, as she played with the hair on his chest.

"No…that's not what I meant. I mean, why did we wait so long to…you know."

She laughed, a bright and bubbly sound that warmed him through and through. "We had to wait for the right time, I suppose."

"Midsummer's Eve. I had no idea it would be…like this."

"I tried to warn you," she said, as he rolled onto his back and pulled her atop himself. "Oh, Erik," she sighed. "You've made me so happy."

"I'll make you happy again, if you'll let me," he said, thrusting his hips slightly to prove it.

She settled herself on his hardness, taking him inside her once more and rocking with a steady, satisfying rhythm to the sounds of their mutual pleasure.

Lit by the midnight sun, it was there, on the banks of a spring-fed pond in the middle of the forest, that their fate was sealed.


	34. Chapter 34

To Be Loved  
Chapter 34

By HDKingsbury and Mad Lizzy

"_The ultimate lesson all of us have to learn is unconditional love, which includes not only others but ourselves as well." _~Elizabeth Kubler-Ross

At last, he understood. He was loved, not because he could hypnotize a woman with his voice, or for the music he could create, but for himself. He was loved for being Erik. He was loved completely and unconditionally, without thought to how terrible his face looked. At last, he understood what Christine had been trying to show him for months, since that day he had been such a fool and run away…and she followed after him. She loved him, as a wife, as a friend and as a lover. She loved him, and after struggling to come to terms with these strange, new sensations, the enormity and simplicity of this one sentiment was finally clear.

Thank God for that. Yes, the same God he had railed at time and again for cursing him with such a face. Pious folk often said the God's ways are mysterious. For most of his life, Erik thought this was little more than bunk, but now? Maybe, just maybe, there was some truth behind it all. He was reminded of the seeds that were planted in the spring and came into full bloom in summer—that was what their love was like. Their love that had begun on rock ground had taken firm root and grew. Now it blossomed under the summer skies, and Erik was filled with a peace and contentment had he never before thought possible.

Their days were filled with love. Little gestures. Hands touching. Eyes gazing. He could sit for hours and stare into the depths of her emerald green eyes, or run his fingers through the lush curls of her red-gold hair, and drink himself giddy on the intoxication of her kisses.

"I'll never leave you," she told him. "Ever."

-0-0-0-

Where winter days were cold and dismal, those of summer were warm and inviting. Many an afternoon, Christine and Erik slipped away to their private sanctuary. They were proud of how they managed to keep their afternoon trysts a secret, completely unaware of the knowing grins that passed between Anna and Oskar.

"You just wait and see," Anna told her husband one afternoon. "There will be a baby out of all this – and soon!"

Oskar laughed with joy at the thought of a baby's presence to brighten the house. "It's been a long time since this old place has seen such happiness."

A few weeks later, Christine came down to breakfast looking pale and complaining of an upset stomach. "Ugh!" she said, grabbing a napkin and holding it to her mouth as she shoved aside the plate of sausages Fru Nystrom had made up.

Anna's face screwed up in a look of concern. "Is there something wrong?"

Christine took a seat and managed a shaky smile. "I'm not sure. For the past few days, I've been feeling tired and a little dizzy, especially in the morning." Understanding suddenly occurred, and her smile grew bigger. "Oh my, do you suppose…?"

"When was the last time your monthly courses flowed?"

Christine thought hard. "Just before Midsummer. Do you suppose it happened _that_ night?" The thought that she and Erik had created a life that magical night made her forget her discomfort.

Anna gave a nod. "It could be. Special powers are released on Midsummer's night. It is a time for the renewal of life."

"What's all this about Midsummer?"

The women turned to find Erik had joined them in the kitchen. "Well? Is this something you can share with me, or is it 'women's talk'?" he asked, snagging a sausage from the platter on the table. He caught the looked that passed between the two of them. Christine blushed while Anna stifled a giggle.

"Excuse me a moment," the older woman said, giving Christine a wink. "I think I left something at the house," she muttered, and out the door she rushed.

"What was that all about?"

Christine invited Erik to have a seat. "I think she wanted us to have some time alone."

"That's very kind of her," he said with a gleam in his eye. "But why now, this morning?"

"So I could tell you my news. I think you'd better…oh, never mind, you're already sitting."

"What's wrong? Are you unwell? You look a little worn. Have I been keeping you awake too much at night?" he asked with a grin.

"You're going to be a father," she blurted out.

Erik felt the air knocked out of his lungs as the world came crashing to a halt. What did she just say? A father? No, he must have misheard her. He'd been taking precautions. That's when it struck him that recently, he had not been as conscientious as he'd been during those first months of their marriage. During their trysts, the idea of taking precautions had seemed unnatural, and he'd allowed himself to believe that nothing bad could come of something as beautiful as their love. Now he realized how foolish that kind of thinking had been, and he was faced with the all-too-real results.

"Are you sure?" he managed to choke out, the food in front of him suddenly not the least bit appetizing. A father? This was insane. He couldn't be a father; he did not know the first thing about being a father, and it was not as if he could draw upon memories of his own childhood to guide him in any way. Of his father, he had no recollections whatsoever. The man had either died or run off before Erik was born. As for his mother? All he could recall was a cold, unloving woman whose only tenderness was to give him a mask to wear, so she would not be troubled by his face.

"Erik? Is that all you have to say on the matter?"

He pulled himself out of the mire of the past. "I'm not sure. What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to be honest with me. Are you happy? Sad? Disappointed? Oh please, tell me what you're feeling."

He took a deep breath, collecting his turbulent thoughts. The last thing he wanted to do was upset her, but…what exactly did he feel? "Truthfully? I think 'frightened' is a good way to describe what I'm feeling. I'm sorry, Christine. Are you positive?"

"Not completely, but pretty certain. A visit with the midwife should confirm matters once and for all."

"I see." He did not know what else to say. His mind was still awhirl with conflicting emotions.

"I know you were against our having children," Christine said, breaking into his thoughts, "but it appears that decision has been taken out of our hands."

"This is entirely my fault. I failed to use the proper…protection. And what about _this_?" He motioned toward his face. "What if our child looks like me?"

"Are you apologizing? Because I'll have none of that. Secondly, this is not entirely your 'fault.' Seems to me I was a willing participant in what we did. Have you considered the possibility that this was meant to be, just like you and me—together? This child is the result of our love, our gift from God. How could I fail to love this child that will be ours, no matter what it looks like?"

At last, Erik found the courage to smile, albeit weakly. Perhaps Christine was right. Everything would work itself out. Fatherhood was something he had never looked forward to and would take some getting used to, but he had nine months during which to work on that. Christine was right about one thing—he would love this child of theirs, no matter what its appearance. He would not do to another child what was done to him. If he could not give their child physical beauty, then he would teach it to find the beauty underneath. He saw Christine looking at him expectantly. "I will do my best," he said, and saw her relax. This is what she wanted to hear him say. "But now you must tell me honestly, Christine—how do _you_ feel?"

"Excited…and a little scared," she admitted, taking his hand into hers. "But with you by my side, I know everything will be all right."

-0-0-0-

By their first wedding anniversary in October, Christine's delicate condition had progressed nearly four months. Fru Nytrom, having had several children of her own, knew how to help Christine through the worst of the bouts of morning sickness with homemade recipes that settled the stomach. After the early, unpleasant symptoms abated, she began to take on a healthy glow that matched her rosy optimism. Evidence of their growing love was not yet showing, but Christine was radiant, and that was enough to set tongues wagging.

The churchwomen looked at her knowingly, nudging their husbands and smiling smugly. They encouraged their men folk to shake Erik's hand and to congratulate him on impending fatherhood. It seemed that the birth of a child would truly usher the Delacortes into the bosom of the close-knit Gamla Uppsala community, even if Erik were still learning how to fit into their society. The first time one of the men slapped him on the back, for instance, Erik had glowered at him until the man slunk away fearing for life and limb. Christine, who witnessed the incident, let her husband know that such actions were not acceptable, and refused to budge until he held out his hand in friendship and thanked the poor soul.

When all was said and done, though, Erik allowed himself the luxury of manly pride over his accomplishment. The truth was, he relished the fact that he had sired a child, and seeing Christine grow gravid with his seed filled him with a sense of accomplishment such as he had never known. It was primal; it was undignified; and it was utterly Erik. He owned up to the fact of approaching fatherhood with the same delight he enjoyed in providing a respectable home for Christine and for earning a healthy income. He could hardly wait for her to begin her confinement, and more than once caught himself daydreaming of riding to church on Sundays and answering questions about his wife's health.

"Yes, she is well, thank you. She is making ready for the blessed event. No, thank you, we have plenty of clothing on hand for the infant. A crib? Not necessary. I've made the cradle myself. You are most welcome to come by for a brief visit, but kindly remember that she tires easily these days. It is hard work, motherhood. Twins? Good lord. We should be so lucky."

For her part, Christine prepared for childbirth the way a general plans for war. With her husband's assistance, she tackled the extra room and transformed its four plain walls with paint and wallpaper into a veritable fantasyland. One wall bore a mural of the secret spring-fed pond that held such meaning for them, while the others were painted with scenes from her favorite fairy tales. Even the _n__ä__cken_ was there, fiddling away, while a beautiful young maiden approached.

"Why do you want that old thing here?" Erik had asked, even as he blocked in the forms for Christine, who was less artistic than he was. "Won't it scare the child?"

"Of course not," she scoffed. "We'll tell our son all about the true nature of the _n__ä__cken_, that he is a kindly fellow who looks after those he loves, and that he just happens to be the most talented musician in all the world."

"We'll tell our _daughter_ that the _n__ä__ken_ is the second best virtuoso in the world, after her father," he had replied with a grin.

"Oh, that's right. I had forgotten that you dreamed we are having a girl." She stood up and stretched, and as she leaned back, the smallest curve of a belly was clearly visible beneath her apron.

The sight of it compelled him to reach for her. "We are having a girl," he said as he captured her in his arms and kissed the back of her neck. "Don't spoil my delusions, Christine. You are the one who taught me to place my faith in dreams."

"You're right," she said, turning in his arms. She gazed at him through her long lashes, letting her dark green eyes wander over the maimed surface of his face.

"I…I'm sorry," he said quietly, as he began searching for his mask. He tried pulling away from her as he explained, "I took it off while we were painting. It's warm in here, with the sun beating down on this side of the house."

She caught his arm. "Don't. Please don't. You needn't…cover yourself. The Nystroms have the day off. Surely you can be yourself with me."

He was uncertain. He focused his attention on the paintbrush in his hand, dripping with red paint. "Have you ever heard of circus freaks, Christine? No, of course you haven't. Some say that if an expectant mother has a fright or sees something hideous, the child in her womb can be affected. The child can be born…a monster."

"I've never been the superstitious sort." She took his hand and placed it low on her belly, and lifted his chin so that he was looking at her. "Erik…I am worried about something. Something I must ask you about."

He gulped at the quaver in her voice. "What is it?"

"If I cannot give you—that is, if our baby is born…like you…will you be displeased with me? I mean, can you find it in your heart to love it, no matter what kind of appearance it may have?"

By now, he had given the matter much thought. Many a night, long after Christine had fallen asleep, he had lain awake and pondered this very prospect. In the beginning, it had frightened him. Now, he had come to terms with this possibility. "Of course I can. It will be part you. How can I not?" He held her tighter.

"Erik…. I love you with all my heart; you know that I do. But children need that same kind of love. The kind that isn't dependent on perfection or on good behavior."

"We needn't worry about that," he said with an impish smile. "Any child of yours will be well-behaved."

"I'm serious. A child needs parents who are accepting…even of their own foibles and shortcomings."

"Are you saying that, if I don't love myself, I can't love our child?"

"In a manner of speaking. I'm saying that, if you don't love and respect yourself, our child will sense this."

He snorted. "Ridiculous! It's a child, not a mind reader. I've never heard such balderdash."

"Think about it. That's all I ask." She laid her head on his shoulder and kissed the side of his neck, sending a sensuous wave of pleasure throughout his wiry frame.

He mulled over the idea. "To properly love our child, I must love myself." He nestled his face against her hair. "I'll keep it in mind."

She cupped his terrible cheek in her delicate hand, using her thumb to gently stroke the side of his head where no hair would ever grow. She held him that way until she realized that he was responding to her touch with increasing interest. She recognized that expression, that look of longing in his eyes, and it stirred a need within her that could only be satisfied one way. "Let's go lie down," she said. "We've done enough work for one day."

"Are you sure?" he asked, his voice strained with desire. "It won't hurt the baby?"

"What do you think the churchwomen gossip about, when the men are out of earshot? They've been giving me all sorts of ideas about ways to enjoy our afternoons alone."

"I had no idea. Those brazen hussies. We will need to keep our daughter away from women like that." He nuzzled her ear, and pulled the lobe between his lips.

"Oh, that feels good," she sighed, as he continued to explore her with his kisses. "If the church women are any indication, then the Swedish make the French seem like rank amateurs, when it comes to making love. There are all sorts of ways to…explore…our…to share our...oh, Erik!"

"I'm glad we made our home here," he said with growl of desire. He swept her into his arms and carried her into their room, while wet paintbrushes dried onto the hardwood floor.

-0-0-0-

Over the next few months, Christine grew with her advancing pregnancy, so much so that Erik began to worry that she was indeed carrying twins. She grew awkwardly large and as her center of gravity shifted, she began to sway like a duck in order to maintain her balance. "Don't watch me waddle!" she protested. "Once the baby is born, I'll go back to being svelte and lithe, and you'll have to chase me all the way to the spring to have your way with me."

He laughed, a hearty and robust sound that filled her with joy. "You've never been more beautiful than you are right now."

"Good. You go on thinking that." She walked with a hand low on her back, and he jumped up to help her into a chair.

"Getting me down is one thing," she groaned. "Getting me back up again is another thing entirely. Don't go away, or else I'll be stuck here until Fru Nystrom finds me when she is dusting the furniture."

Erik's mind was filled with thoughts of the hoists that sailors used when lading ships with goods for a long ocean voyage. Invalids could also be loaded on board in sea chairs. Perhaps Christine would like him to build one for her, so that she would not have to negotiate the steep stairs in their house. He opened his mouth to tell his wife about it, but when she groaned with the effort of settling down into the chair, he thought better of it. Some thoughts are better left unspoken.

As she became great with child, she relied increasingly on him, and he served her with unflagging good humor. Whether it was helping her dry her hair in front of the fire, or tying on her shoes, or massaging her aching back and feet, he was never far from her side. She didn't even have to ask for help. He knew what she needed, knew what she wanted before she knew it herself. "You're a good husband," she told him every day. "You'll be a doting father. You'll spoil our daughter rotten."

"You've given up on calling it a boy, then?"

"No use resisting! I married a genius who knows everything. If you say it's a girl, it's a girl. You'll be glad to know that I've already begun buying hair ribbons and frocks."

"Is there anything else you need?" he asked her, as he propped her feet on a footstool and covered her legs with a lap blanket.

She caught his sleeve and pulled him down for a kiss. "I have everything I've ever wanted," she said softly.

And she meant it.

-0-0-0-

**Authors' Note:** Allow us to take a moment and give a shout out to our friend, Bleeding Heart Conservative (whose stories can also be found on this site). She still has some Leroux Erik Plushies for sale. These are limited edition items. Once they're gone – they're gone. (And maybe, just maybe, she and her business partner will consider creating a Red Death Plushie!) So, if you're looking for the perfect gift for the Phan in your life…or if you want to give yourself an early holiday gift, check out the Leroux Erik Plushies. Since I cannot post a link here, please see my profile page. I've links posted to BHC's Leroux Erik Plushies as well as other Phantom-related merchandise offered by my writers group (The Write Stuff) through Zazzle, and links to my stories in book form on Lulu.

And thank you, everyone, who has come back to read the second half of our story. Lizzy and I will try to reply to reviews, but forgive us if sometimes we don't. Life is hectic for both of us these days...and sometimes? Well, I confess that sometimes I just plain forget. Thank you again, and we hope you continue to enjoy our story.


	35. Chapter 35

**To Be Loved**

**Chapter 35**

December 5, 2010

"_A babe in the house is a well-spring of pleasure, a messenger of peace and love, a resting place for innocence on earth, a link between angels and men."_

~ Martin Fraquhar Tupper (1810-1889)

One day early in March, Christine's sunny personality was replaced with one of dogged determination. For nearly two weeks, she had been relentlessly feathering her nest and making ready for the birth of her daughter. (Of course, it was going to be a daughter. Hadn't Erik dreamt this? And if anyone knew the power of dreams, it was Christine!) Erik followed her helplessly, doing all that he could to spare her from any physical strain, but there were times when it was hard to keep up with her. She was a juggernaut, making sure the house was clean, that there were plenty of linens, that the nursery was ready.

Fru Nystrom watched her closely and nodded her head knowingly. "The baby will be here soon," she pronounced.

"Should we send for the doctor?" Erik asked anxiously.

"What doctor?" Anna replied. "There are no doctors in Gamla Uppsala. The midwife, Fru Eske, will come when it is time."

"No doctors?" Erik gasped. "How can this be?"

"Erik," Christine said patiently. "Women have been giving birth for millennia. I'm young and strong, and the past nine months have been entirely normal. There is no need for a doctor. Besides, doctors don't have a very good reputation when it comes to birthing."

"We should move to the city, to Uppsala, until the baby is born." He looked around furtively, as if there were some escape route to be had.

"We'll do nothing of the sort. Our baby will be born at home. That's the way I want it to be, Erik. No strange rooms for me, not in some hotel where strangers have slept. And definitely no hospitals! I do not want our baby coming into the world and being taken away from me to be nursed by so-called professionals."

Oh, but she was as infuriating as she was intractable. "There's nothing wrong with professionals," he replied tersely. "They know what they're doing!"

"So do I! No doctors, Erik. Promise me. There is no safer place for a baby to be born today than in her own home in Sweden. Ask 'the professionals' yourself, if you don't believe me."

Anna, who was normally timid and shy around Erik, joined in the discussion. "She's right," she boldly proclaimed. "You are a smart man! Read about it yourself. Swedish midwives are professionally trained in all the latest techniques. They can do anything a doctor can do. And better, too." She said the word, "doctor," with utter disdain.

Erik raised his hands in the air, giving up. "It's no use arguing with you when your mind is made up." Then he noticed the frown on his wife's face. "Christine? What is it?" When she didn't answer, he knelt beside her chair and touched her shoulder. "Is something wrong?"

"My back hurts something terrible. I think I should go lie down," she said breathlessly. "Help me up the stairs."

Erik helped her out of the chair and put one arm around her waist as he guided her to the stairs. He looked over his shoulder and caught a glimpse of Fru Nystrom.

"I'll send Oskar for the midwife," Anna said firmly. "Just in case."

-0-0-0-

Tuva Eske proved to be a formidable woman. She had a kindness about her that extended only so far, and she took charge of the childbirth with calm determination born of years of experience. She set Anna about bringing up the linens and towels that had previously been boiled and set aside for the occasion, and she fussed at Erik until he left the room.

"Birthing is a messy business. We don't need a first-time father getting under foot," the midwife pronounced, and sent him on his way. Indignant at being treated as though he had no reason to be at his wife's side, Erik retreated to the parlor where his nykelharpa awaited. Anna reassured him that Christine had previously met with the midwife several times, unbeknownst to him, while he worked in his study. He had been summarily exiled from the master bedroom by all three women admonishing him, saying that the birthing room was no place for a husband.

Thus, in the middle of the night, Erik fiddled while Christine labored. Periodically, Anna would appear by his side and grant him a few minutes with Christine. Between pains, she was able to carry on pleasant but brief conversation. "She's almost here! Isn't it wonderful, Erik? We're finally having our baby." The moment the contractions began, though, her entire attention was focused solely on delivering a child.

He played fast and furious pieces, starting with frenzied polonaises by a Polish composer he'd come to admire named Henryk Wieniawski, and from those he progressed to the challenging "Caprice No. 24" by Paganini. Fingering, harmonics, plucking…his hands were a blur as they exacted all that the old nykelharpa could give him. In the hands of the Maestro, it sounded as grand as the finest instrument in all the world.

Upstairs, Christine's ordeal was progressing normally. The music provided a distraction from her pain, and gave her something to focus on other than her own natural fear that something might go wrong. The midwife mopped her brow with a cool cloth, paying close attention to the young woman's state of mind. It would not do to let her patient worry. "I've never heard such music!" Tuva exclaimed, and gave a reassuring smile when Erik switched to Bach's chaconne, spellbinding them all with its dark, warm dynamics. "From hearing your husband at church, I knew he was gifted, but never had I imagined—"

"Herr Erik is a wonder to behold," Anna interrupted with proprietary pride. "Listen," she added, as the chaconne came to a close.

Christine lay back on the bed pillows as the pain eased off. "Some men make nuisances of themselves. Mine plays the violin," she said, smiling weakly. The labor was taking a toll on her. "How much longer?" she asked.

"Not long now," Tuva replied. "Another hour, perhaps."

"He needs a proper instrument," Christine decided before the next contraction began. "Anna, remind me to write Édouard and ask him to use some of the next paycheck to purchase a proper vi—oh! Here comes another one!"

Downstairs, the bow danced across the strings as Erik's nimble fingers wrought the notes, and by the time he had gotten to Vivaldi's daunting "Winter," he was perspiring heavily and his shirt was soaked from exertion. On the last downward stroke of the bow, the horsehair sprung loose, having been completely worn out by the demands he had placed on it, and as the last note resonated, his daughter was born.

At the sound of the baby's cry, Erik tossed the nykelharpa aside and sprinted up the stairs. He flung open the door, only to be met by a stern Anna Nystrom. "Not yet, not yet," she admonished. "We're not finished in here yet."

Erik looked over Anna's head, trying to ascertain what was taking place. He was under the impression that the baby had been delivered, yet there was still a scurry of activity taking place. "The baby…."

"She's beautiful, Herr Erik, simply beautiful. An angel. She has her mother's golden red hair! And listen to that cry. _Ja, _she has healthy lungs, that's for sure. Let me finish bathing her, and I'll call for you in a few minutes." With that, the door was closed in his face.

He was ready to tear it off the hinges. Someone tapped on his shoulder, and he wheeled about, ready to spring on the intruder. It was Oskar. Erik had forgotten about the man while he'd been pouring out his emotions into his music and was surprised to see he was offering him a glass of water in one hand and a mug of _gl__ö__gg_, a heated spiced wine, in the other. Erik accepted the water and drained the glass in three quick gulps but shook his head, declining the spirits.

Oskar shrugged his shoulders. _"Skål!"_ he said, saluting the new father, and tossed back the contents of the mug. "There's no sense letting it go to waste."

-0-0-0-

Finally, Erik was given permission to enter the room. He wasn't sure what to expect, and was surprised at the bright and cheery atmosphere in the room.

Fru Nystrom gently pushed Erik forward. "Go to her. She's been waiting for you."

Erik walked to the bed. Christine was lying on her side, many pillows propped around her. Her red-gold hair was brushed and hanging loose around her shoulders, resting gently against her soft, flannel nightgown. Cradled in her arms was a small bundle. His baby. No,_ their _baby. His wife looked up at him. Cradled in her arms was a light blanket covering a small bundle. She motioned for him to sit with her.

"Come see your daughter," said Christine, her face exhibiting both radiance and weariness. He leaned over and dropped a kiss upon her forehead and found himself grinning like a silly fool when she drew the blanket back for his first look at the baby.

"Fru Eske was showing me how to feed our new baby. Mother's milk is the best, she says."

Christine managed a tired grin. "Our daughter was hungry, and she's still learning how to nurse." Erik frowned, not understanding her meaning. "I'll explain it to you later," she said.

The midwife joined them. "Now, you burp the baby." She demonstrated, all the while giving advice on how to hold the baby, burp her, change her diapers...the usual things new mothers and fathers needed to know. Erik sat in awe. The midwife smiled. She'd seen first-time fathers before.

Erik looked at Christine. "How do you feel?"

"A little tired, but well. Erik…she's beautiful!" Tears of pride and joy filled her eyes. "You were right, you know – about our baby being a girl." She handed the baby to Erik, who held it at arm's length, as if it would break at any moment.

"No, no," chuckled Fru Eske. "Relax. Like this." She pushed the baby against his chest, nice and snug. "It's a baby, not a bomb."

Erik gazed into his daughter's face. Now that she had been fed, she was content to lie in her father's arms. She yawned and blinked a few times, looking around at all the strange sights around her with her slate-blue eyes, then found her attention drawn to her father's face…and the mask he wore. Erik felt himself freeze, waiting for the babe to squeal in terror, but instead she smiled and his heart melted.

"It's gas," Fru Nystrom said, but Erik was certain his daughter had smiled at him.

Fru Nystrom and Fru Eske quietly exited the room, leaving the three of them alone. Erik sat holding his daughter in his arms, opening the bundled blanket so that he could examine her more closely. He counted her ten fingers and ten toes, not once but twice, reassuring himself that all was as it should be. The other two women had been carrying on and on, declaring that the babe was the most beautiful one they'd ever seen, but Erik suspected that such statements were simply the usual gushing over a newborn (not that he'd ever personally engaged in such conversations). No matter, the fact that his daughter was born without a blemish—from the red-gold curls on her head, her scrunched up nose, her rosebud mouth to her delicate little fingers and toes— made her perfect in her father's eyes.

Holding her in his arms, Erik wondered how different this was from his own birth. Not that he could remember any of that, but it was all too easy to imagine the midwife squealing in horror as she brought him into the world, or his mother refusing to suckle him. No matter. That was all in the past—the dead past. It no longer mattered that his father had abandoned him or that his mother refused to love him. In his arms was all the proof he needed that there was such a thing as complete and unconditional love.

"Erik, since we are alone, let her see your face."

He looked up at Christine, wondering if he had heard her correctly. "Let her see me?" The idea was preposterous…wasn't it?

"Children are taught to fear and loath. It is not something they are born with. She should grow up seeing you, knowing you for yourself and not as some man behind a mask."

"But…you're sure I won't frighten her?"

Christine gently shook her head. "No. I promise. Here, give her to me while you take off your mask."

Reluctantly, he gave the baby back to his wife, then removed his mask and wig, setting both down on the table next to the bed. When he took the infant back into his arms, he held his breath, waiting for what was going to happen next. He watched in amazement as his daughter opened her eyes, gave a little bewildered stare as if to ask, "Who are you?" Then she made some gurgling noises that sounded a lot like the sounds of approval…and she smiled again. This time, there was no doubt in his mind that she was smiling at him. Apparently satisfied with what she saw, she gave a yawn, closed her little eyes once more and went to sleep, safe in her father's arms.

And at that moment, Erik cried. "She's perfect," he repeated more to himself than anyone else. "Perfect." After several moments of blissful peace, he finally asked, "What shall we call her?"

They had had this discussion many times. Each time they thought they had settled upon a name, a new idea would pop into their heads, and in the end, they had decided to wait until the baby was actually born, believing the right name would come at that time.

"Aurelia," said Christine.

"Our Golden One?" His gaze returned to the soft, pale curls on her head. "Yes, our Golden One. Aurelia, you have no idea how much joy you have brought to your father this day. No more sorrow, no more fears. From this day forward, our lives will be filled with joy and it will be because of you." He smiled at Christine. "And you, too, of course."

She chuckled softly. "Thank you."

"Ah, but I am tiring you. All I did today was pace a hole in the carpet downstairs while you were up here, doing all the hard work. I should leave you to get some sleep."

"And you?"

"Why, I shall watch over our daughter," he said proudly.

A knock at the door had Erik handing the baby back to Christine, then quickly donning his wig and mask.

"May I come in?" It was Fru Eske, who'd returned long enough to ensure that her patient was comfortable and resting, and that the baby was the same, promising to stop in and check on mother and babe tomorrow and for as many days as may be needed.

"Do you anticipate any trouble?" Erik asked, suddenly worried.

"No, of course not. This is what I always do."

The next three days were the happiest days Erik had ever known. If he were the sort to believe in fairy tales, he would have called this part of his life the quintessential ending of one in which the ugly beast was transformed by the love of a beautiful woman…and turned into a loving husband and father. He treated Christine like a delicate treasure, one he would guard with his very being. As for Aurelia, she already had her father wrapped around her tiny fingers and could do no wrong. When Erik told Christine that Aurelia's cries were like the songs of angels, his wife smirked and replied, "And do her soiled diapers smell like roses, too?"

Erik had a cot brought into the room so he could sleep in the same room as Christine and the baby while allowing his wife full use of the bed so she could rest. He was very solicitous of her comfort and more than once, she couldn't resist teasing him that he was becoming a worrywart. She would be fine in a few days, she said. Women give birth every day. To which Erik replied, "But they are not my wife. You are."

One morning, Christine asked for a pen and writing paper.

"Whatever for?" Erik asked.

"I want to write to 'Uncle' Édouard, or did you forget that we were going to ask him to be our baby's godfather at her baptism."

"Oh…uh…I believe I have some in my work room," Erik said, chagrinned at having done just that. Returning with not just paper, pen and ink, but a bed desk as well, he held Aurelia while Christine wrote.

Christine scribbled away, humming as she wrote. To Erik, she seemed to be taking forever. "What are you doing? Writing a novel? That's my job," he said half in jest.

"I'm telling him how lovely his goddaughter is, and how much we are looking forward to his returning." What she didn't tell him was that she also asked their friend to bring a violin for Erik. With the strength returning to his hand and fingers, it was time he graduated from the nykelharpa. This was going to be her special gift to her husband, and she smiled as she imagined the look of surprise on his face when she presented it to him.

-0-0-0-

On the morning of the fourth day, after several days of regularly regaining her strength, Christine complained of a slight headache. Erik put his hand to her forehead and thought she felt slightly feverish. When asked if she was experiencing any other symptoms, she tried to shrug it off, saying only that she felt tired. When Erik relayed this to the housekeeper, Fru Nystrom immediately sent for the midwife.

Within minutes, Fru Eske was at the door. "What is the problem?" she asked, quickly divesting herself of her cloak, her bag containing the tools of her trade in hand. Erik followed her upstairs, filling her in.

"Perhaps you will think I am being an overly protective husband," Erik said.

"On the contrary, it is good that you sent for me. Sometimes these things are nothing; sometimes…" Her voice drifted off, as if fearing to give voice to her fears.

"And sometimes?" Erik prompted.

The midwife shook off whatever misgivings had temporarily clouded her thoughts, and smiled at Erik, patting his hand. "Now, let us not look for trouble. First, I must examine your wife. Then, we shall have a better idea what we are dealing with."

"I'm coming with you."

"No. You must wait out here. Your wife will feel better if you will be a good husband and wait downstairs. I promise, as soon as I know anything, I shall come for you. Trust me; I know how wives feel about these things."

-0-0-0-


	36. Chapter 36

**To Be Loved**  
**Chapter 36**

December 12, 2010

**Authors' Note: **This is one of the hardest chapters we've ever written. That is all the warning I'll give. ~HD

-0-0-0-

_Death leaves a heartache no one can heal; love leaves a memory no one can steal. _~From a headstone in Ireland

-0-0-0-

"How are you feeling?" Fru Eske was doing her best to put forward a cheerful front, but she could not help being concerned. A fever three or four days after birthing was seldom a good sign.

Christine favored the midwife with a wan smile. "I am a little tired," she sighed. "I had hoped that by now, I would be feeling well enough to start resuming normal activities."

Fru Eske sat at her patient's side and patted her hand. "Not all women respond the same. Giving birth is an arduous task. Your body needs time to recuperate." She placed the back of her hand to Christine's forehead. "You feel a bit feverish. Are you experiencing any pain?"

"No, just feeling rather lethargic."

A frown crossed the older woman's face. "Anything else? Any unusual discharge?" Christine shook her head. "Do you mind if I give you an examination?"

"Is this something serious?" Worry tinged Christine's question.

"Truthfully? I do not know. It could be nothing more than a mild fever. Such things are not unusual, you know." Fru Eske gave her patient a reassuring smile. "But I would not be a good midwife if I did not check everything out."

"Yes. Of course."

-0-0-0-

Barely twenty minutes had passed, but to Erik, waiting helplessly below, it felt more like twenty hours. Too nervous to sit, he paced the room like a caged lion. Fru Nystrom offered him a cup of soothing tea, but he would have none of that. The sound of the door closing upstairs alerted him that the examination was concluded, and he met the midwife at the foot of the stairs. The pinched look he saw on the woman's face did not bode well.

"Can you tell me what's wrong with my wife?"

She steered him to the parlor where they could talk. At a nod from Erik, Fru Nystrom accompanied them, and the three of them sat down.

Fru Eske took a deep breath, then said, "I cannot say with any certainty. It could be nothing more than a mild fever."

Sitting still when there was trouble was not in his nature, particularly when the well-being of his beloved wife was concerned. Overcome with another burst of nervous energy, he was once again on his feet. His ears heard Fru Eske's words, but his mind was having trouble digesting their meaning. "But you don't think so. What is it that you're not telling me?"

"She is not exhibiting all the symptoms, but there is the possibility that it could be the onset of childbed fever."

Fru Nystrom gasped in shock, and Erik understood why. Childbed fever was nearly always fatal. No one knew why it struck some women and not others. No! Not Christine. Not after all they'd been through. Certainly, he had suffered enough in his lifetime. Now that they had found each other, didn't he and Christine deserve some happiness? Didn't Christine deserve the chance to watch their daughter grow up? No, this was all a mistake. His wife was only feeling a touch fatigued, nothing more.

"_Söka läkare," _he said, using words that Christine had taught him which he had hoped never to say. "I want a doctor to see my wife," he said. When neither the midwife nor Fru Nystrom objected, Erik grasped just how serious the situation was.

A few minutes later, he rejoined Christine. It was his intention to sit with her until the physician arrived, no matter how long that would take, and it could be a while. The round trip itself was likely to take several hours, not counting the time that would be needed to locate this Dr. Jönsson, who had been highly recommended by both women. With nothing further to do at this point, the midwife bade the Delacortes a good day and headed for home, having secured from Erik his assurance that he would send word to her as soon as the doctor arrived. Fru Delacorte was still her patient, she'd said earnestly, and she would do whatever was necessary to see that this episode of fever grew no worse.

Erik halted before entering the room. Ever since discovering that Christine was not well, he had been distressed. No, it was more than distress. The mere hint that something could happen to her had sent his emotions plummeting into a pit of dark despair. It would be so easy to give in to the madness that beckoned, but he fought back the urge. His wife needed him to be strong, and so he forced himself to smile and be cheery. He looked down on their daughter sleeping comfortably in her cradle next to the bed. He bent down and scooped her up into his arms. It helped to hold her, to take solace from her unconditional love. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and he blinked.

"She is beautiful, isn't she?" He sat on the bed next to his wife, handing Aurelia to her when she held out her arms.

"Yes, she is," Christine replied.

Erik sat silent, drinking in the sight of mother and daughter. No. Nothing would happen. Everything would be fine. The doctor would laugh at their worries. This would turn out to be only a minor inconvenience. They were all over reacting. Yes, that was it. He allowed himself to chuckle in relief.

"What's so funny?"

Erik blushed slightly. He hadn't realized his laugh had been audible. "Sorry. I was just laughing at myself for being such a worrier." Somehow, confessing his fears even in this lighthearted manner made him feel a little better.

-0-0-0-

It wasn't until the following morning that Doktor Sivgard Jönsson arrived, all the way from his hospital in Uppsala, a distance few other city doctors were willing to travel. He was an elderly man who carried himself with an air of studied detachment. Tow-headed and blue-eyed, he was fine-boned with a tall, regal stature and carried on him the faint odor of iodoform. He stepped out of the carriage, grasping his medical bag close to his side, and glanced at the house as if memorizing the details.

Erik observed him from the window of the master bedroom, noting the way the man took in his surroundings. It spoke well of him, this observation and attention to the setting. He nodded to Fru Nystrom, who had taken a seat next to Christine's sickbed, and said to his wife, "_Ma petite_? Dr. Jönsson has arrived. Soon, you'll be feeling yourself again."

"Honestly," she replied tersely. She was tired and irritable, which was not in keeping with her normally genial character. "I don't know what the fuss is all about. I'm feeling much better today. All I need is a little rest, I tell you."

Erik smiled indulgently. "Be that as it may, I insist that you humor me in this. If you are the slightest bit unwell, it distresses me." As quietly as possible, he left the room and slipped down the stairs just as Oskar was bringing Dr. Jönsson through the door.

Jönsson scowled upon entering the house and coming face to face with Erik. He could not contain his concerns, and regarded the master of the house with open curiosity.

Erik bristled. "This," he said, waving a hand at his mask, "is none of your concern. It is my wife who needs you, as Herr Nystrom has undoubtedly told you." He led the learned man up the stairs and opened the door to the master bedroom slowly, trying not to disturb his wife. Christine appeared to be sleeping, but her eyelids fluttered when the men entered the chamber.

Jönsson nodded at Fru Nystrom. "You may go now," he said, dismissing her curtly, "but send for Fru Eske. I want to speak to her about the case. Tell her to bring her records." His brusqueness was more than perfunctory; it was a sign of his concern for the patient.

"Of course," the good woman replied. She closed the door behind her and scurried down the stairs to send her husband for the midwife.

Perched on the side of the bed, Erik held his wife's hand and whispered softly to her. "Darling, this is Doktor Jönsson. He has come all the way from Uppsala to help you." Erik was alarmed at the change in her appearance in just this short time. Whereas last night, she had born the appearance of reasonably good health, now her face was ashen, and her lips were dry and cracked. Dark circles lined her eyes.

"I don't need a doctor," Christine said crossly. "I don't understand why there is such a fuss. I'm tired, that's all."

"Of course you are," Jönsson said genially. "You just pushed out a baby. You have every right to be tired. Would you let me examine you, if only to put your husband's mind at ease?"

Christine looked at Erik with concern. "All right," she said, as the physician cleaned his hands at the washstand.

Erik watched him like a hawk, but moved aside when Jönsson pulled out his stethoscope and placed the instrument to Christine's chest and listened for telltale signs of pathology. He smiled, satisfied that all was well, and patted her hand reassuringly.

"Why does everyone keep patting my hand?" Christine snapped, pulling away from her husband.

"Now, I need to check your tummy, to make sure all is well," the doctor said, taking note of the patient's irritability. He pushed on the top of her stomach, and grimaced when Christine let out a small groan, but ignored the low rumble that emanated from Erik.

Next, Jönsson discreetly checked the lochia for signs of infection, but finding none, he acted as though there was nothing to worry about. "This could be nothing more than a common cold," he pronounced. "I prescribe plenty of rest, and lots of nourishment. You need to build up your strength, madam. You'll be back to your old self in no time."

Erik heaved a sigh of relief. "Is there anything you can do for the fever, and for the pain?"

"We'll discuss that downstairs. In the meantime, I'm afraid Fru Delacorte will need to discontinue nursing the baby."

Christine was visibly upset by this pronouncement. "But my milk has just started to come in!"

The doctor clucked like a wet hen. "Fru Eske will bind your chest, to suppress the milk. Don't worry. This happens all the time, and babies grow up healthy and strong."

The news hit Christine hard. "If I...I mean, when I get well, I won't be able to nurse her, will I?"

"The midwife will know someone who can help, a wet nurse who can feed the baby until your housekeeper can lay in supplies. If not, goat's milk will do nicely."

"Goat's milk?" Erik asked, the question sounding stupid even to his own ears. He felt stunned. He could only imagine how this news would affect Christine. He knelt beside her and stroked her hand. "We'll take good care of Aurelia, dearest, so that you can get well. Don't worry about anything. Everything's going to be fine."

She gazed up at her husband hopefully. "I'll be better tomorrow. Just you wait and see."

A commotion downstairs signaled the arrival of Fru Eske. Oskar had made record time in fetching her back to the farmhouse, and Erik made a mental note to thank him for his efforts as he started to accompany Jönsson downstairs.

"I can find my own way," the elder man said good-naturedly. "You stay here with your wife. After Fru Eske and I have talked, I'll ask her to come stay with your wife so that you and I can have a chat."

Erik nodded, glad to see the man's back. "Did he hurt you?" he asked his wife.

"I keep telling you, I'm fine." She smiled weakly when Erik tucked the blankets around her and smoothed her hair back from her face.

He frowned, visibly worried. "Will you be all right for a few moments? I want to say goodbye to the man."

"Of course." She pursed her colorless lips. "I'm afraid I'm not at my best. You'll have to thank him for me, for coming all the way out here for nothing."

"I'll only be a moment," he promised her, and he hurried down the stairs.

Fru Eske and the physician were speaking in low tones, so engrossed in their conversation that they did not notice Erik slip into the room behind them. "Well?" he asked, startling them both with his sudden appearance. "What's wrong with my wife?"

"It's hard to say. I agree with Fru Eske that this may be nothing to worry about. I'm leaving some medicine for Fru Delacorte, which will help with the fever as well as the aches and pains she's been complaining about." He held out a bottle of laudanum. "Fru Eske will give her a dose now, to help ease any discomfort she may experience from the examination and from having her chest bound tightly." He studied Erik for a moment, apparently wondering how much he should say. "None of Fru Eske's other patients are ill…only your wife. That means if it is a touch of puerperal fever, it is spontaneous rather than epidemic. Your wife appears to be on the mend. This is good, Herr Delacorte, that she is recovering on her own. But, if there are any changes—if you have any concerns at all—I want you to send for me at once."

The midwife took the bottle of medication, then excused herself and hurried up the stairs to tend her patient.

"We can talk in the dining room," Erik told Jönsson. "Fru Nystrom has no doubt prepared a repast for you. You must be hungry after your long trip."

Jönsson's face lit up at the sight of the luncheon Anna had set out on the table. Cold meat, farmer's cheese, and shredded beets awaited them, while a warm fruit tart cooled on the windowsill with a small pitcher of fresh cream beside it. "I can't remember when I last ate. Your man brought me straight from treating my last patient, a little boy who fell out of an apple tree and dislocated his elbow. It would have been worse if he hadn't landed on his older brother. Won't you join me?" he asked his host, as the two of them sat down at the table.

Erik shook his head while Anna fussed over the two of them. "I'm not hungry," he said flatly, sounding hollow and hopeless.

"Take care of yourself, Herr Delacorte. Your wife and child are depending on you."

Erik watched as the man dug into the food. He felt leaden. Ice water ran in his veins. Never had he been as keenly aware of his responsibilities as he was at that moment.

-0-0-0-

An hour later, the doctor was long gone. While Christine slept fitfully under the effects of the medicine, Aurelia cried for her mother. She turned her little face from side to side, searching for her mother's scent. The front of Erik's shirt was wet through and through with the baby's tears. He paced with her, patting her back and doing his best to console her. "When is the woman getting here...the woman who will feed the baby?"

Anna looked out the window. "Oskar has taken the cart for her. It shouldn't be long now. Here, give her this wet rag to suckle. I dipped it in sugar water. It will take the edge off her hunger, until the wet nurse can get here.

Erik sneered. "Sugar water. Is this the best we can do?"

"Herr Delacorte, we are doing all we can!" Anna cried.

He stared at the woman. He was numb with frustration. "First Christine's illness, and now the baby is famished. Fru Nystrom, what if they were both to…no! I mustn't think that way! It will all be over soon, and this will be nothing but a bad memory."

"Try singing to her," Anna suggested helpfully. "It may help."

Exhausted, he sat in the rocking chair near the fireplace and began to sing Christine's favorite lullaby. He had sung it to her when she first arrived at the opera, never imagining that he'd be singing the same song to their child. His child. Aurelia. The babe seemed not to notice the rasping of his voice, and sucked her fist hungrily while she listened to her father sing. She fell asleep in his arms shortly before the wet nurse arrived.

A couple of days passed. At first, it appeared as though the fever had broken and Christine would recover. There was palpable relief among the household. Erik and Christine began to count their blessings and share warm-hearted laughter over the joy of simply being together with their baby. By week's end, however, her symptoms returned, more pronounced than before. Even worse, she was beginning to exhibit signs of hallucination. Erik refused to leave her side, and Oskar went out once again to fetch the doctor.

-0-0-0-

Christine looked around the room. Delirium had set in, and her eyes imagined things that were not there. She tried to cry out, but her voice was weak. "Raoul?" she cried, staring straight at the blond, blue-eyed Jönsson. "What are you doing here? I told you I didn't want to see you ever again."

Erik could barely hold back his own tears. He sat by her side, holding her close, willing himself to take her pain away. "Shhh. You remember Dr. Jönsson, Christine. He's here to help you."

She struggled weakly in his arms. "Go away, you silly man. I want Erik. Where's Erik? I want my Maestro."

He kissed her gently on her hand. "I'm here, love. Right here beside you."

Jönsson stepped forward and placed his bag on the night table.

"I'll need to examine her." He started to lift the blanket, but already the smell of death was strong. The examination was brief. "There's nothing I can do here, other than to make her as comfortable as possible. Nature will take its course. She'll either live...or..."

Erik desperately grasped for any other option. "That's impossible. Surely, you can do something for my wife. Some drug, perhaps. A surgical operation."

The other man shook his head sadly. "Not without causing her terrible pain...and I fear an operation is not likely to help her. If anything, it would only speed up the process already in place." He placed a sympathetic hand on Erik's shoulder. "I'm very sorry."

"But you must try!"

"Where's my baby?" Christine said, suddenly lucid. "Where is Aurelia?"

Erik fought back tears. It would not do to let his wife see how distraught he was. She was the one who was suffering; it was up to him to be brave for her. "She's safe, my darling." He did not want to tell her that the wet nurse was taking care of the baby now. "She's with...Fru Nystrom." He turned to the doctor. "How could this happen?"

"No one knows. I've known Fru Eske for many years. She is a good midwife, extremely competent, and takes all precautions. She even goes so far as to wash her hands before examining her patients or delivering a baby, something my colleagues laugh at but that I think has helped her patients come through the dangers of childbirth."

"But not my wife." He growled in frustration. "Don't talk down to me. Tell me what is happening! Exactly what is this fever?"

"It is a sepsis of the abdomen. Note the distention of the belly, the dusky color of her hands and feet. Her teeth and tongue are coated." He hesitated. "It is…an advanced case."

"What will happen? I mean, if the worst…. Will she suffer?" He was unable to finish speaking.

"She will have moments of clarity, but she may also experience some hysteria," Jönsson said grimly. "Her organs will putrefy." He stared hard at Erik before adding, "You asked me to be straight with you, so I'll be blunt. There will be pain – much more than she has yet experienced. When it is too much for the laudanum, you may use this." He extended his hand; clutched in the palm was a syringe and a packet of white powder. "I'll show you how to use it."

Erik reeled. "I know how to use it," he snapped, "and I know why you are leaving it. You mean for me to…ease her pain…to help her…to stop her suffering—forever. Damn you, curse you and your medicine!"

Dr. Jönsson patiently listened to Erik. He knew it was the man's fear speaking. He packed up his instruments and slipped out of the room, leaving Erik and Christine alone.

She called to her husband, and he staggered to her side and knelt on the floor by her bed, cooing to her in soft and gentle tones. "I'm here. Right here, beside you."

"Come closer. I…I can't see you," she whispered, and then moaned as a wave of pain swept through her. "Erik…" The effort to talk was taking a toll on her. "I don't want to die. I want to stay with you and our baby…. Hold my hand. Don't let me go."

"Shhh," he whispered softly. He wanted to scream, _Fight it, Christine, fight! Never leave me!_ But all that he could say was, "Rest now, my darling. When you're stronger, I'll take you to the spring…we'll take our baby there. Together."

At last, he was able to get her to sleep with the help of some laudanum. A growing sense of panic immobilized him. He stared out the window at the setting sun, and began to bargain with God. "Why did You give her to me if only to take her away? She's young; she has a lifetime ahead of her—and what about the babe! What will she do without a mother? Take me, take me instead! Let me do Your bidding, anything, only let her live!

"If I had never…touched her…if I had let her go, she'd still be well and happy and…. Please, dear God, let her live, and I will…build a church…write an opera that will put _Faust_ to shame…anything…anything You want. Just don't…please don't take her from me."

Blinded by tears, his desperation turned to anger. "You have always hated me. Without her, I am nothing but a miserable cur, but she is…she is everything that is good in the world! Punish me any way you wish, but spare Christine! Spare her, for the sake of the child! Mark my word, if Christine dies, I will curse Your name for the rest of my days."

-0-0-0-

Over the next few days, her condition grew worse. It tore the small household apart to see such a young, vibrant woman suffer so. Erik never left her side, doing everything he could to make her comfortable. He sat looking at her, realizing the crisis was upon them. He took her wrist in his hand and felt her racing pulse, watched her chest rise and fall with rapid, shallow breaths. The slightest movement sapped all of her strength, and her body rejected their efforts to give her liquid or sustenance of any kind. The caudles that Fru Eske had brought sat forgotten on the bedside table beside Dr. Jönsson's medications. None of them had brought her any relief, other than the needle with its solution of morphia, which did little but take the edge off the pain.

Fru Nystrom had brought in fresh flowers—the first buds of spring—but no amount of perfume could mask the fetid sickroom smell that hung over the deathbed. The miasma was cast over it like a pall.

Erik knew it was only a matter of time before Death took her from him. As much as he dreaded the inevitable, it would be a blessing for to be freed from the ghastly grip of the infection that riddled his beloved's entire body. Her every muscle clenched in rigor. Gone were the roses from her cheeks, the sparkle in her eye. She had become a living wraith, waiting for release from her suffering. He cried quietly, struggling to contain the emotions welling up inside him. "This is all my fault," he muttered.

"Erik." Christine spoke, her voice very weak. "This isn't your fault. You mustn't blame yourself. I wouldn't have changed a thing we did…except I'd have married you when you first asked me."

He gasped for air, searching for an answer, but Christine found the strength to speak again.

"Take off your mask. Let me see you...one last time."

When he looked at her, he saw that her eyes were clear. He wasn't sure if he should be pleased or saddened that now that the end was near and her pain was at its worst, she was experiencing a period of lucidity. Bowing to her request, he removed the mask and wig, blinking back the tears that threatened to break forth. He sat motionless as her fingers explored every crease, every crevasse of his face.

"Don't cry, Erik."

He tried to smile. "You'll be all right, Christine," he repeated over and over, trying to convince himself of the impossible.

"No... I won't. Erik..." She paused a moment, trying to marshal what strength she had left. "Erik, you must love her...for both of us. Provide for her as I would have wanted…."

"No," he moaned, the grief too much for him to bear. "Christine, I...I can't live without you..."

"But you must, my love. Aurelia needs you." Another pause. "Erik? Will you...will you hold me?"

He cradled her in his arms and saw the smile on her face as she nestled her cheek against his shoulder. He stoked her hair with his free hand, holding her close with the other. Quiet seconds ticked by.

He finally admitted to himself that his Christine was dying, and there was nothing he could do to stop it. It was only a matter of time now before the inevitable. He groaned at the futility of it all. Despair threatened to make him insensible. He balled a fist and shook it at the ceiling, crying, "I am utterly useless!"

With eyes fever-bright and wide, Christine gazed at him curiously, too ill to think straight. "This is fine," she said calmly. "Just because you are useless, does not mean you are not helpful." She smiled weakly at him, then jerked with the agony of a spasm ripping through her abdomen yet again, and he looked at the needle on the nightstand. One more injection would be all it would take…one specially prepared injection, with all of the remaining powder, and then her suffering would be over…. But could he do it? Could he be the Angel of Death once more, for his beloved? Could he make the ultimate sacrifice—and put an end to her suffering?

"Erik," she whispered. "Sing for me."

"The medicine…I'll prepare…an injection…and then I'll sing for you."

She shook her head. "I don't want the medicine. It doesn't help. Just…sing for me. Please?"

He had no idea how he managed, but he sang the song he had once written for her, the song that spoke of the beauty of the nighttime, hard as lightning, soft as candlelight, urging her to let her spirit soar. When the last notes faded away, he looked at Christine and saw her eyes were closed. Her face was beautiful in endless slumber, and he knew that it was over.

She was gone and at peace...while in the distance, a baby cried.

-0-0-0-


	37. Chapter 37

**Authors' Note:** As promised...there's still lots of story left to be told, and here's the next chapter to prove it. And at this time of the year, Lizzy and I would like to wish all our readers a blessed holiday season. A word of caution, though - as Christmas and my usual posting schedule clash next weekend, I'm afraid I'll have to forgo posting for a few days. But not to worry. The next chapter may be a few days late...but it will come. Our promise to all of you!

In the meantime - Happy Holidays! Merry Christmas! Blessed Yule! And Happy New Year!

~HD & ML

**To Be Loved  
By HDKingsbury and MadLizzy**

**Chapter 37  
**

_"The risk of love is loss, and the price of loss is grief - But the pain of grief is only a shadow when compared with the pain of never risking love."_ ~Hilary Stanton Zunin

The morning was bright and clear. Though still early spring, cold weather was quickly becoming a thing of the past. Warm southern breezes had chased away the last vestiges of winter, and birds were warbling in the budding trees, announcing their return. Early green shoots were sprouting up in the small garden plots in front of houses, and it would not be long before their buds erupted into bloom.

It was also a good morning because in the mail, Bruguière had received a letter from his favorite 'niece.' He smiled as he remembered with pleasure last year's visit to Gamla Uppsala. It had pleased him to no end when he learned that Christine was in the family way. Oh, Erik had gently grumbled in his letters that he knew nothing about being a father, but Bruguière had learned to read between the lines and knew deep down that Erik was, in truth, quite proud. The letters they had been exchanging over the months had been filled with joy, and Bruguière had been pleased to inform Erik that his second volume of O. G.'s "memoires" was doing even better than the first.

"You have a rare talent for storytelling," he wrote to his friend and client. "Readers enjoy your blend of adventure and mystery, along with those little touches of romance." And when he forwarded the first of what would be many royalty checks, Bruguière added that he hoped Erik's muse was cooperating, as the publisher was already asking when a third volume would be ready to print. "Invest your money wisely, and you'll never need to work another day of your life. Real work, that is."

He sat at his desk, savoring the letter. He looked at the date on the stationery. The babe must be at least a week old by now. So he was a godfather! Christine had delivered a healthy baby girl—Aurelia. What kind of name was that, anyway? It sounded terribly British, but that was all right. He wouldn't hold that against the girl. He read on and more than once laughed at the new mother's descriptions of her husband's constant hovering over her.

"He means well," she wrote, "but can get terribly underfoot sometimes."

The woman definitely can weave a tale, he thought, every bit as good as her husband can. The most intriguing part of the letter, though, was her request that he bring a violin with him when he came for the christening, promising to have Erik wire him when a date was set. Bruguière grinned, for attend that event he would.

During his visit last spring, Bruguière had seen for himself that Erik's love of music had blossomed once more under the nurturing encouragement of his wife. Obviously, he was ready to play a real instrument and not that monstrosity of a thing called a nykelharpa. Silly thing looked more like a hurdy-gurdy, though in Delacorte's hands it managed to produce some lovely sounds.

He checked his calendar and then called out to Barthelbe.

"Oui, monsieur?"

"Where can I buy a violin?" He shuffled through the papers on his desk without looking at them, his mind already on making preparations for the trip to see his friends.

The scrivener shrugged his shoulders, perplexed by his employer's odd inquiry. "Perhaps there is someone at the opera who can advise you."

"The opera?" He considered the suggestion. He was, after all, a season's ticket holder. He clapped the little man on the shoulders and planted a very Gallic smooch on the top of his bald pate. "You're a genius, Barthelbe! Remind me to give you a raise. Oh, and get rid of any cases I have on my calendar for the next few weeks. Give them to Monsieur Raymond down the hall. He could use the extra business," and he dashed out the door.

Barthelbe remained perplexed and shrugged as Bruguière's footsteps echoed down the hall. "Bien sur, monsieur! But of course."

-0-0-0-

Nearly a thousand miles away, the sun had long since set on Gamla Uppsala, and still he cradled her in his arms. Christine's body sagged against him, and in the springtime chill, the natural warmth had begun to leave her. He breathed his life into her unresponsive lungs, begged God for mercy, but nothing he did could bring her back. A terrible wailing beset his ears, and he realized dimly that it was his own cry to heaven that rattled the window sash.

Gasping for air, he clung to her and wept out his anguish. Outside the door, there were the vague rustlings of people in the house, but he refused to acknowledge the gentle knocking on the door.

"Herr Erik, open the door," Anna pleaded. "Let us help you. We will take good care of her, sir."

He knew what they wanted—to take her away from him, to wash and dress her for…for the burial. The thought of it tore at his fractured mind. He'd be damned if they touched her.

"You're not putting her in the dark. She hates the darkness! She hates the cold! She's…." He looked down at her lifeless form, and lifted her pale hand to his lips and kissed the fingertips turned purple by lividity. "Go away!" he screamed. "Leave us alone!"

The woman would not stop. "Herr Erik, this is not right. You must let us—"

"Get out of here!" he shouted. "Leave everything and let me take care of my wife!"

More rustling in the hallway and the muffled sound of wooden buckets clunking together told him that water was being brought. They had expected to wash his wife, to dress her and wrap her in her shroud, to prepare her for eternity. He thought he had no more tears left to shed, yet the weeping continued. Blinded by sorrow, he laid her down as gently as he could. He stood over her, bent and broken, and wiped away the hot tears that fell on her unflinching face and ran in runnels down her pallid cheeks. He smoothed her hair with his hands, grimacing when he saw her slightly parted eyelids. Dead eyes seemed to track his every move.

He lurched towards the door and put his ear to it, listening for telltale sounds of unwanted company. When he was certain they had left, he opened the door as quietly as possible and glanced furtively down the hall in case anyone lingered nearby. Soap and towels were set in a neat stack beside two buckets of steaming hot water. He tucked them under one arm and then drew the morbid supplies inside before locking the door firmly, shutting out the world. He turned towards the childbed…the deathbed…and stopped in his tracks.

Death was no stranger to Erik. It was an old friend, one that he had never imagined would visit Christine before his own time. She had always been the very essence of life. He recalled the first time he saw her. She had recently arrived at the conservatoire to study voice. Her father had passed away, and she had no will to sing, try as she might. Something about her—maybe it was her loneliness or her innocence—drew him out of the shadows like a moth to a flame. Before he could stop himself, he'd approached her and offered to tutor her.

Those had been the happiest days he had known, and they passed with unparalleled joy. He hadn't even realized he had fallen in love with her until that boy had shown up and interfered with his plans. His plans? He halted in his tracks, sending hot water sloshing onto the floor and seeping into his pants legs. Is this what he had planned?

He stood frozen to the spot, filled with remorse. If only he had left her alone! If only he had never touched her. If only he had died when the mob tried to hang him. If only he had never been born! If only…if only….

The weight of the buckets caused the rope handles to cut into the flesh of his palms, and he fought the urge to dash them against the wall. He was overwhelmed and exhausted—by grief, by anger, and by the futility of supplicating to a God that did not answer him, but most of all, he was afraid. Christine's child—his own flesh and blood—depended on him…on one who had never done anything in his life but kill and destroy.

"You must love her for both of us."

He heard her voice clear as a bell. Was he losing his mind?

"Christine?" he whispered.

Trembling, he set down the buckets and dropped the towels and soap onto the floor. He knelt beside the bed, searching frantically for signs of life. In the drawer of the bedside table was a small hand mirror she kept atop her journal; he tore open the drawer and held the looking glass over her mouth and nose, desperate to see signs of life—a fog of breath on the mirror's surface—but there was nothing.

"Don't leave me," he murmured to the cold corpse that stared at him with green eyes already turning opaque. "I can't do this alone." He could have sworn he heard her sigh.

"You have to provide for her as I would have wanted."

He stifled a moan. "An insane father. Just what the child needs."

Slowly, carefully, he returned to the odious task before him, and lifted her easily in his strong arms. As he washed her, images of the two of them together in the spring-fed pond flashed in his mind. He remembered all of the happiness she had brought him, felt it keenly even while he washed away the evidence of the infection that had killed her. He stirred the water, breaking the otherworldly silence of the room. It was impossible not to think of himself at a time like this. When Death came for him, who would bathe him and send him to his rest? Would the water be warm, or cold as the grave?

He shook his head and forced himself to concentrate as he dipped a washcloth into the bucket. In his travels, he once heard a wise man say that the soul of a righteous person slips out as easily as a drop of water over the lip of a pitcher, but the souls of villains struggle desperately to stave off the final judgment. He remembered the oddest fragments of this long-ago conversation while watching a droplet run down the left side of her knee as he cleaned her leg. Back then, he'd never have imagined performing this last act of humble servitude for his beloved Christine.

Where did that scar come from, he wondered, staring at a star-shaped mark on her ankle. He'd never noticed it before. Unbidden memories of the two of them entwined, drunk with the joy of mutual pleasure, danced in the back of his mind.

Softly, gently, as though she could still feel his touch, he turned her body left and right, tracing every inch with the cleansing cloth. He was careful to keep her womanly parts covered with a towel, knowing that at this most vulnerable moment, Christine would have wanted modesty. When he had finished, he found fresh, clean clothing in which to dress her.

He chose a dress heavily decorated with colorful embroidery, one that she had sewn herself during the long winter months. She had made it a little larger than she usually wore, well aware that she would not have gotten back her figure in time to wear a fitted dress to Aurelia's christening ceremony. He eschewed the heavy woolen stockings in her top drawer, and chose instead the silk leggings ordered from Paris. Only the best would do for his dead wife.

With painstaking tenderness, he dressed her head to toe and then brushed out her strawberry locks counting, as he had so many nights before, to one hundred strokes. Taking the scissors from her sewing basket, he cut a lock for a keepsake. Then, he plaited her tresses, his agile fingers working steadily to create smooth, flat braids that he wound across the crown of her head in the Swedish fashion. It was the way she'd worn it since their wedding day, and it had filled him with a sense of pride to see her showing off her marital status in such a way. It had made him feel wanted, made him feel like he belonged to her.

An otherworldly calm descended upon him as he remembered their wedding day, with her hair done up in a coronet with a flowing veil attached, and how he had taken out the braids and combed his fingers through her hair that night.

Their wedding night.

Remembering her when she was most alive somehow gave him strength, even though it pushed him closer to the brink of madness. He wanted to follow her into the Dark, to hold her and protect her always, even if it meant climbing into the coffin with her. He would welcome Death, welcome the sound of the dirt filling in their shared grave, welcome slow suffocation, but it wouldn't be that easy for him. He had a promise to fulfill. Aurelia was his responsibility, and his alone, and he would care for her…because Christine wanted it.

He closed his wife's eyelids and let his hand linger on her forehead. She was as beautiful in death as in life. In fact, Erik was sure there had never been a prettier corpse. As the night wore on, he sat on the bed beside her and stared at his hands, wondering if he would ever get the stench of death off of them.

Downstairs, the Nystroms had begun preparing the house for mourning. Quiet as a mouse, Anna stripped the walls of decorations and hung black bunting above the front door. Oskar went to the barn and prepared to make a coffin. It would be lined with plenty of pine shavings, which would freshen the air and provide soft bedding for endless sleep. Knolling church bells told him that Tuva Eske had informed the pastor of Christine's passing.

On the morrow, neighbors and visitors from the village would arrive, friends paying their last respects to the young mother. Each of them would peer at her in the coffin, and touch her one last time as was the custom. They would cluck over the beautiful babe she left behind, shake their heads in sympathy for Herr Erik, and bring nourishing food for the household. Perhaps the nursemaid would take it home to her own family, for to those who knew and loved the young mistress, it would only taste like ashes.

At this moment, though, the household was quiet as a crypt. In the nursery, Aurelia yawned, her hunger sated at last, and she slept peacefully in her nursemaid's arms while the rosy light of dawn pierced the horizon.

-0-0-0-

Several days later in Paris, the bell at the door was an unexpected and unwanted interruption. The hour was late, and the housekeeper had long ago gone to bed. Édouard Bruguière sighed as he set his book aside. It looked as if he was going to answer the door himself. Whoever was on the other side was persistent. Probably a client who'd gotten himself in trouble and needed help—now. Well, whoever it was would need to get in touch with Monsieur Raymond or some other lawyer. Édouard's bags were packed and his ticket purchased. Tomorrow, he was leaving for Sweden and in a few more days, meet his new god-daughter.

When he opened the door, he was a little surprised to see it was a telegram delivery boy. "Monsieur Édouard Bruguière?" the lad inquired.

"Yes."

"For you," the boy said, thrusting a telegram into Bruguière's waiting hand.

Christine had written that Erik would wire when the date of the christening was set, but at this hour? He tore open the envelope and read:

_Come at once. There has been a great tragedy and I fear for Herr Erik._

_~Oskar Nystrom_

Bruguière stared at the words; felt the air sucked from his lungs.

"Is there a reply?" the delivery boy asked impatiently.

Bruguière swallowed hard, attempting to regain his composure. He nodded. "Yes, one moment." He walked over to his desk, took out a piece of paper and wrote:

_I shall be there by the end of the week. _

_~Bruguière._

He gave the paper to the boy along with sufficient coins to cover the cost of the telegram plus a generous tip. "See that this is sent right away. It is extremely urgent."

The boy took the reply and the money, tipped his cap, and left.

-0-0-0-

Throughout the days-long journey, Bruguière was filled with dread. He pulled the telegram from his pocket several times, as if willing it to reveal its secrets.

Come at once. There has been a great tragedy and I fear for Herr Erik.

Blast that man Oskar. Why did he have to be so secretive; what possible tragedy could have occurred? He had received Christine's letter in which she'd said that mother and infant were doing well. Had something happen to the babe since then? Or to the mother? It was almost two weeks since the child had been born, a long time. Dear God, had something happened to them both! But the telegram said "I fear for Herr Erik." Could it be that Erik is ill or injured? But would that be a great tragedy?

As soon as he set foot in Sweden, Bruguière dashed off a telegram to the Nystroms, informing them of his arrival and telling them when the train would bring him into Uppsala. The next day at the train station, Oskar Nystrom was waiting with the cart to take them both the short distance to Gamla Uppsala.

The first thing that struck Bruguière was Nystrom's appearance. Gone was the hale and hearty farmer he'd met last spring. In his place was a man whose stooped posture, worn expression, and reddened eyes bespoke great sadness. Nystrom reached for Bruguière's bags, but the attorney stopped him.

"I'll not take another step," he said in French, then remembered that the farmer's knowledge of the language was very limited. Could that be why the telegram was so vague? He tried again, this time in heavily accented Swedish. "Tell me what has happened. What is the meaning of this telegram?" He waved the paper.

"It is Fru Delacorte," said Oskar, his eyes welling with tears. "She…she is gone."

Bruguière heaved a heavy sigh, his worst fears having come true. "And the baby?"

"She lives, but the master—"

Bruguière remembered what Erik had been like before Christine had returned to be part of his life, the desperate, despondent wreck of a man. "Dear God. I can't believe it. Tell me what happened."

"She was so brave, even as she suffered. It broke our hearts, to see her suffer so. It was childbed fever."

The attorney closed his eyes. He knew only too well the horrors of childbed fever. His own beloved sister had died from it years ago. He reached out and placed a comforting hand on the other man's shoulder. "I see. And Herr Delacorte, he is not taking this very well?"

"Nein. Herr Erik is taking it very hard. My wife and I, we are worried about him. After Fru Delacorte died, we could hear him weeping for hours. Such a sound! A howling as though the gates of Hell had been opened! At the funeral, he held his daughter and stared into the open grave. We were worried that he would jump into it after her, and never come out. In a way, that's what he has been doing. He is alive, but not living. He has been going through the motions ever since, being a good father, but he's heartbroken."

"And the baby?"

"Oh, such a baby as you have never seen before! She's delightful in every way, and thriving, in spite of being a poor motherless little thing."

-0-0-0-

The promise of spring was a cruel irony, under the circumstances. Early flowers had begun to poke their budded heads from the remaining snow, mounded in small drifts here and there. Since his last visit, the house had been freshly painted a cheerful red with white trim. It bespoke a friendly welcome to the weary traveler, but Bruguière noted with growing apprehension the deathly stillness of the place. It was quiet…too quiet.

Anna apparently heard the wagon pulling up to the front of the house and came outside, wiping her hands on her apron as she approached. Her face was pinched with worry. "Thank you for coming," she said, and added as an afterthought, "Merci."

He nodded an acknowledgment but got straight to the point. "Where is Herr Delacorte?"

"He's in the parlor, with the baby." She seemed surprised that he would ask. "There is something you should know," she added hesitantly. "You should prepare yourself. He isn't how he was before…before she died."

Bruguière ran a hand over his face as if to clear his mind, then brushed past her as he went inside. There had been a few changes in the house since his last visit. He remembered it as a warm and cheerfully decorated haven, but now it was austere. The walls had been stripped bare. Not only had all of Erik's paintings and Christine's needlework been removed but the dining room was much smaller than he remembered it, and a bedroom had been added to the main floor. He knew that in some parts of the world, including Sweden, homes were made stark following the death of a loved one. That explained the lack of frippery. As for the changes in the architectural design, no doubt Erik and Christine had been making modifications to their home in anticipation of the baby's arrival. Perhaps they had even been considering having more children. The thought of the two of them planning a long and happy future with their family made his chest ache, knowing as he did that it would never come to pass.

The parlor was as he remembered it, save a cradle near a sunny window. There he found Erik, sitting in a rocking chair with the baby clasped to his shoulder. He patted her back and talked to her in low, soothing tones that Édouard could not make out. It sounded like a foreign language to him—definitely not Swedish or French. Was it even a real language, he wondered, and found himself speaking without even thinking about what he would say.

"Erik. I'm here. I'm…so sorry…."

Fru Nystrom's warning about his appearance was not without warrant. Erik had lost a dramatic amount of weight. He was haggard and seemed to bear the burden of the entire world on his shoulders. His clothing was clean but disheveled. Most important was the fact that he was not wearing his mask or wig, but took care to keep the baby's head from touching his own by placing a soft flannel blanket over his shoulder to protect her from direct contact. He had a haunted, grim countenance, and stared at his only friend without really seeing him.

"The christening is on Sunday," he said, his voice hollow and bereft of emotion. "You're early."

Bruguière hadn't seen Erik without the mask since they first met. He felt a chill come over him as he recalled that day, when Erik was ill and imprisoned. Now as then, the older man forced himself to look straight into his friend's eyes, but there was no flicker of recognition. He swallowed hard and pressed on, determined not to be distracted by the disfigurement.

"Is that why Oskar sent for me? To be sure I would arrive in time for the ritual?"

The specter that was Erik stopped rocking, but continued to pat the baby, rubbing a small circle in the center of her back with the tips of his skeletal fingers. "No." His ragged voice, once so beautiful it made the angels weep, cracked with emotion. "He sent for you because I…my…Christine…she's…she's gone." He struggled to speak, forcing himself to carry on. "We…we must make provisions for…my…my child. A will…."

"That is a small matter, and one we will not need to worry about for many years," Bruguière responded reassuringly. He stepped lightly across the room until he was right beside the rocking chair.

"Years?" Erik asked wearily. "None of us can say when Death will come for us." He gazed down at the baby in his arms. "Oh, don't worry your pretty head about me, my friend. I'm…I'm…not planning to…go anywhere any time soon."

A tear ran down the side of his horrible face. He brushed it away and felt the baby stir. She turned her head from side to side and sucked noisily on her fist. "Have you seen my daughter?" he asked, and held her out for a proper inspection. "Isn't she pretty?"

"My god-daughter, you mean." Bruguière spoke like a proud uncle, and leaned down, the better to see her, coming close to touching heads with Erik. "She's beautiful. Every bit as lovely as her mother." He peered at Erik, wondering how the mention of his wife would affect him.

Erik seemed inured to the loss, and responded in a cold, detached manner—almost phantom-like. "Her eyes are dark," he said matter-of-factly. "Anna thinks her hair will be dark, too. Darker than Christine's, at any rate."

As if on cue, Aurelia opened her little eyes and blinked several times. Nearly three weeks had passed since her birth, and she was obviously thriving in the care and nurture her father provided. She waved a tiny fist in her godfather's direction and he reached out for it automatically, delighted when she wrapped her fingers around his thumb. He chuckled and cooed at her.

"Aren't you the strong one," he said to her in high-pitched baby talk, and he was sure she smiled back at him. He looked a little more closely at her; she was indeed perfectly formed, but there was one clue as to her origins. "One of her eyes is lighter than the other," he said without thinking.

Erik frowned, as if he hadn't noticed. "She is her father's daughter," he said in such a way as to send a shudder down one's spine.

"She's perfect," Édouard interjected quickly. "Christine would be very proud of the way you're managing."

Erik stared out the windowpane, focusing on the far point where she was interred. A shadow crossed his haunted features, and he struggled for composure. He stood up suddenly, wobbling on his feet, and turned away from his friend as he lurched towards the window.

"Steady," Édouard said, holding Erik's elbow to support him. "Let me help you." He could have sworn he felt Erik lean against him momentarily.

The two of them stared out the window for a long time, in utter silence. Gradually, Aurelia began to fuss, straining against her father's arms and searching hungrily for food.

"Come," Erik said, all business. "You won't believe the gadgets they've made for feeding babies who have…babies without…for feeding babies." He could not bring himself to say the word that remained unspoken, "motherless," but continued in a cool, analytical tone like a scientist describing an experiment.

Édouard followed him out of the parlor and into the kitchen, where Anna was heating goat's milk in a pan over a low fire. She averted her eyes when Erik entered the room, a fact that did not escape Bruguière's notice, but which Erik ignored.

"Pap pourers, leather teats that fit over spouts, and the likes of such as you'd expect to find in a medieval torture chamber." Erik prattled on, as though the chatter gave him a tenuous hold on the here and now, and dandled the baby in his arms to distract her from the pangs of hunger. "Whatever will they think of next?"

-0-0-0-


	38. Chapter 38

**To Be Loved**  
**Chapter 38**  
**By HDKingsbury & MadLizzy**

December 28, 2010

**Authors' Note:** Lizzy and I hope that all of you had a wonderful week. As promised, here is the next chapter - a little late, but at least it is here. Enjoy! ~HDK

-0-0-0-

"_Friendship doubles our joy, and divides our grief." _~Swedish Proverb

When he went to bed that night, Erik had no idea how he was going to get to sleep. Every time he shut his eyes, his mind would race. He would replay Christine's last days and wonder what he might have done differently, plagued by guilt that he had not been able to save her. Even a glass of wine before going to bed did nothing to help, yet at some point, exhaustion overtook him and he had fallen asleep. He did not rest long, however; during the night, a knocking at the door woke him up.

He gazed about the room, slightly confused. It was still dark outside, although the moon was nearly full and cast a silvery light that reflected off the landscape outside and sent moonbeams through the window, illuminating the bedroom. He sat up and listened hard. Nothing. Had he really heard the knocking, or had it only been his imagination at play? Maybe the baby was moving in her cradle, but a quick glance showed Aurelia was sleeping peacefully. He was about to lie back down when he heard it again. Yes, this time he was certain. Someone was definitely knocking at the door. He grabbed his dressing gown and padded down the hall. He made a brief stop in front of Bruguière's room and peeked inside. There was the possibility that Édouard hadn't been able to sleep and had slipped outside to get some fresh air, and locked himself out, but no – there he was, snoring away. Erik couldn't resist the urge to smile, at least a little. Good old Édouard. The man would probably sleep through an avalanche.

Quietly closing the door, Erik next headed down the stairs. Whoever it was outside was persistent, though the sound wasn't frantic. He paused when he reached the kitchen. In the parlor, the clock was sounding the hour. He counted the chimes. A quarter past three. What in the world could somebody be wanting at this hour? Could one of the Nystroms be ill? He shook his head, clearing the last of the cobwebs that were clouding his mind. Standing barefoot in the kitchen wasn't going to solve the riddle, and he reached for the door. When he opened it, he nearly fainted, for there in the silvery light of the moon stood Christine, lovely as ever and smiling at him. He took her in his arms and hugged her tightly.

"I thought you were…you were dead," he sobbed, refusing to let go of her. He didn't care that her presence didn't make sense. All he knew what that she was here with him, his living bride. He held her close, inhaling her fragrance, then kissed her gently yet passionately.

After standing together for several minutes, she gently disentangled herself from his embrace. "I've missed you, Erik," she said, and stroking his damaged face, stood on her toes and leaned up to kiss him tenderly on the cheek. She took him by the hand. "Come with me."

Her tiny hand felt soft and warm within his own. Softly yet determinedly, without uttering a word, she urged him to accompany her. He had no idea where she was leading him, but at this point, he didn't care. They stepped out of the kitchen and were standing next to the herb garden where the fragrant plants perfumed the air. He paused as he remembered something. "The baby."

"She'll be fine, Erik."

"Are you certain?" He looked back toward the house. "I mean—"

She smiled beguilingly. "I'm certain. A mother knows these things."

He knew he should have protested more, but found he didn't want to. He trusted Christine. If she said the baby was fine, then she was fine. They continued to walk, Christine leading the way. The sky was clear and the night as warm, the world around looked almost fairytale like, and Erik thought of that Midsummer's Eve of nearly a year ago. Neither spoke as they continued on their way, and when Christine finally stopped, Erik saw that she had brought him to their secret place.

"Let's sit here," she said, motioning to an old tree trunk that had fallen over years ago. During their many visits to this place, they had made use of the trunk, using it as a bench for sitting on. In front of them was the small pond where they once lost all inhibitions.

Erik broke the silence. "I don't understand. How is it that you're here?"

"I wanted you to know that I will never leave you. That I will always be with you, and will always be watching over you and our daughter."

"But—"

She put her fingers to his lips. "No, Erik. Don't try to use logic. This is something that transcends reason. You and I are eternal; our souls are mated for all time. When I was but a child I dreamt of you, long before I ever met you. We each need the other, as much as we need food to eat, water to drink and air to breathe."

Tears began to form in Erik's eyes. His rational mind told this none of this was real, but he didn't care. All he knew was that he never wanted this to end. That he didn't want to wake up and find himself alone. "You died in my arms," he whispered.

She reached out and wiped the tears from his face. "Yet I will always be with you. You mustn't mourn so, Erik. It hurts me to see you like this." She put her hand to his face, and he realized that he didn't have his mask on. It didn't matter. Christine loved him for himself, warts and all. She didn't mind his wretched appearance. He closed his eyes, relishing the feel of her touch.

"I don't know how to go on, Christine," he said with a heavy sigh.

"But you do, even if you don't realize it. Already, you are on the right path."

"I am?"

"Aurelia, she is the key. By loving her, you are keeping me with you. Do you remember your promise to me? You must love her—for both of us."

"Will I ever see you again?"

"Whenever you want." She placed her hand over his heart. "I will always be here for you." Then she took him in her arms and told him to lean against her. She cradled him in her arms and began to sing softly, like a mother singing a lullaby. She combed her fingers through his sparse hair until he closed his eyes and fell asleep.

Later, he woke up and found himself back in his own bed. He looked and saw Aurelia sleeping quietly in her cradle. Had it all been a dream? Had Christine truly visited him this night, the two of them walking to their special place by the water? He pushed back the covers and quietly got out of bed and walked over to the window. Did it really matter? All he knew was that for the first time since Christine died, he felt a sense of peace. He put his hand over his heart, remembering the feel of her touch. _I will always be here for you._ Yes, it was true. She was still with him and always would be.

As he stood looking out the window, he remembered something. He turned around and looked at the desk, and for the first time in weeks, thought of Christine's journal. He walked over to the desk and sat down. He opened the drawer and slipped the book out, setting it in front of him. Tenderly, he ran his fingers across the leather cover. He lifted it to his lips and held it under his nose, wishing that her scent still clung to it, but all that he smelled was leather, ink, paper...and dust. Carefully, he placed it back on the desktop and opened it, admiring the pages filled with her delicate script. As with any book that had been opened many times, the pages fell open of their own volition. If he were a superstitious person, he told himself, he would have suspected Christine's spirit of turning the pages. He stared at the words in front of him.

_Erik is a good provider. He can give our daughter everything I ever longed for—a stable, loving home; a good education; and most of all, love. Already he is showing himself to be a doting father. I have no doubt but that I am going to have to watch him closely to be certain he does not spoil her! What a lovely child he has given me! A more beautiful baby has never been born! I am so happy—I am the luckiest wife who has ever lived._

He looked again at the cradle. Aurelia must have known he was watching her, because at that moment she opened her eyes and smiled with her little bow lips. He got up from the desk and reaching down, picked her up and smiled back at her. "Your mother loves you, did you know that?" he said to her. "She's watching over you, over both of us." Aurelia made cooing noises in reply. He carried her over to the window, delighting in showing her the dawn sky.

"Do you hear them, Aurelia? Those are birds, singing to welcome a new day. And it is a going to be a good day, because your mother is with us." The baby started fussing. "Are you hungry?" As if understanding him, Aurelia blinked and grinned. "I'll take that for a yes, but first, I think something needs…refreshing." As he carried her to the diaper table, he noticed she was clutching something in one of her chubby little fists. "What's that you've got there?" He took one look at what she was holding and let out a slow, low whistle.

"They'll never believe this!" he said in a whisper.

-0-0-0-

Down in the kitchen, Anna was preparing breakfast and warming some milk for the baby. Bruguière had risen early and joined her. They were exchanging pleasantries when both were surprised by Erik entering the room. Even more surprising than the simple fact that he was joining them for breakfast was his appearance. The tired, rumpled, troubled man Bruguière had seen the previous day was been replaced by someone who looked more like the Erik he once knew.

His face had lost none of its sadness, but the haunted quality appeared to be gone. He was clean and had shaved, and was wearing a fresh mask. His clothes were clean and unwrinkled, too. In his arms was Aurelia. Anna and Édouard both expressed their surprise and pleasure at seeing him. Erik offered them a tentative smile.

"She's hungry," he said, nodding at Aurelia and handing her over to Anna for her morning feeding.

"You're looking better this morning," said Bruguière, more than a little relieved.

Erik acknowledged the greeting with a nod.

"And how did you sleep, Herr Erik?" Anna asked.

Erik looked at them with more than a little trepidation. Dare he tell them what happened last night? He wasn't sure what they would make of it, but he knew he had to tell someone, and so he sat at the breakfast table and told them about the visit. He saw the skepticism written all over their faces.

"I know you both think I'm going mad, but I tell you that Christine came to me last night. She promised never to leave."

Anna and Édouard exchanged worried glances. This was not lost on Erik.

"It was just a dream," Édouard said kindly.

"A dream? Then how do you explain this?" Erik held out his hand and opened wide the palm, revealing the strands of strawberry blond hair he had been holding tight. "This was in Aurelia's hand."

"Obviously, it came from your clothes. A stray hair or two must have clung to the fabric." Édouard lowered his voice and peered over the frames of his _pince nez_ spectacles at Erik, convinced that grief was driving the poor man mad. "Really, Erik. You must…get a grip. I'm worried about you."

"Think what you will," Erik replied tersely, resolving to keep his thoughts on this subject to himself from now on.

-0-0-0-

For the rest of the week, Édouard kept a close watch on his distraught friend. Erik did his best to soldier on despite his broken heart, and the disconsolate man seemed to be gaining strength. One could see it in his posture. Initially, he was achingly vulnerable, intensely aware of the people around him and their concerns, and exceedingly grateful for any assistance that was offered to him. With each passing day, though, Erik appeared to be adjusting to the reality of raising his child without the help and support of the woman he loved.

As the days went by, he was even willing to engage in casual conversation. He took comfort in the fact that Aurelia was healthy and strong, and his initial frantic attention to her every need was soon supplanted by a calm self-assurance that all would be well. She was, it seemed, a textbook baby, one who responded as well as could possibly be imagined to her diet of goat's milk and pabulum. She was beginning to sleep through the night, even at this young age, and during the day, she cried very little. Why would she? Someone—usually Erik—was always within arm's reach of her. The child would want for nothing.

Yet, the violin that Christine had asked Édouard to bring remained tucked away in the guest room, a ticking time bomb. Bruguière had no idea of how it would affect Erik. Surely, he hoped, the fact that Christine's last request was for a proper violin for her husband would bring the man some comfort, but it could just as easily send him into dark despair. It was impossible to predict exactly how it would affect him, so Édouard postponed the inevitability of presenting it to his grieving friend as long as possible. In the end, he decided that it would be best to simply give it to him with as little ado as possible.

One night, when the servants had been dismissed, Aurelia was fast asleep, and all was still, Édouard entered the parlor and unceremoniously set the violin case atop Erik's lap.

"What's this?" Erik asked, with guarded civility. "Have you taken up a new hobby? Don't tell me that you want to learn the violin, at your age."

"Nonsense. One is never too old to learn," Édouard muttered, bristling at the suggestion that at his advanced age of forty-five, he was over the hill.

Erik ran his hands over the case and popped open the latch. Inside was an exquisite instrument. "It was hand-selected by the conductor of the Paris Opera himself," Bruguière said, then held his breath as Erik slid aside the straps holding it secure and lifted it gingerly from the case.

"A Guarneri," Erik whispered in awe. He turned it over, handling it with due reverence, and looked closely at the pattern on the back of the wood, noting the fine grain of the wood. The varnish gleamed in the firelight, and the instrument seemed to take on a life of its own. His keen eye for fine craftsmanship told him that his instincts were right. "This instrument is fit for a maestro," Erik said, turning his attention to the bow. "May I?" he asked. Without waiting for permission, he drew out the bow. It was straight and supple, yet strong enough to dig into the notes of the most demanding composition. "This will serve you well," Erik said at last.

"Let me hear how it sounds," Bruguière said gently, smiling when Erik immediately rosined the bow and lightly touched it to the strings.

As quietly as possible, Erik tuned the instrument and played a few strains of a piece he had been studying, a violin sonata written by the Norwegian composer, Grieg. Erik peered over the bridge and regarded Édouard with curiosity. "Why did you bring this here?" he asked suspiciously.

There was nothing left to do but to confess. "It's yours, Erik. A gift from Christine."

Erik stood stock still, staring a hole through the floor next to Bruguière's feet.

"She wrote to me after the baby was born, and asked me to bring it from Paris, in time for the christening."

"The christening is tomorrow," Erik said emotionlessly. "Did she…did Christine want me to play it at the church?"

"I think she wanted you to have it, to enjoy it. For the sheer pleasure of it. She said you needed a proper instrument. I understand that you played whatever you call it – a nykelharpa? – while she was in labor. Maybe that prompted her to suggest that you would enjoy having a concert violin. The concertmaster at the Paris Opera helped me find it. He said it was fit for a gifted musician of the highest quality. This is exactly what Christine would have wanted you to have. I hope you like it, because it cost you a fortune." He realized he was babbling, and in doing so, only making matters worse. "Why don't you play something? Or don't you like it? I'm sure I can sell it, and get your money back."

Erik stared stupidly at the instrument, and shifted it and the bow to his left hand. Without a word, he turned to the door, and started through it. In the doorway, he hesitated, unable to take another step forward. "Can you…will you look after the baby?" he asked, his voice breaking.

Édouard saw his shoulders begin to shake, and realized that Erik was struggling to maintain his composure. "Of course."

"I'm…I'll…be back."

"I know you will."

He nodded, and oblivious to the chilly night air, he walked into the darkness—towards Christine.

She was buried in the churchyard, but Erik knew where he could find her. He always felt her presence near the shore of the sylvan glen where Aurelia had been conceived. In the darkness, he made his way across the fields surrounding their home, through the woods, and to their secret place. His sharp eyes, so accustomed to the night, picked out the path easily.

He thought back to what Édouard had said, "She wrote to me after the baby was born, and asked me to bring this from Paris." The memory of her smiling and full of life as she wrote letters to her friends, announcing Aurelia's birth, filled him with conflicting emotions. The past few weeks had proved the best of times and the worst of times, with the happiest and the saddest moments of his life all coming together at once. He felt the path soften beneath his feet, and when he came to a large, flat rock near the banks of the pond, he sat and watched the moonlight shimmering across the surface of the still waters.

Music had always been his solace, his constant companion throughout his miserable life. Once, soon after they were married, Christine had told him that in Bremen, she began to understand his contemptuous words for what he called "opera music." She told him that his music bespoke martyrdom in every detail, both its horror and its beauty. At first, his music had terrified her with its swelling, gigantic chords that seemed to glorify Sorrow and Suffering; but then, there arose sounds so triumphal that they set the world ablaze with Hope.

He doubted he would ever feel triumphal again. He wasn't consciously aware of the moment he touched bow to string; the music seemed to emanate from him as naturally as breathing in and breathing out. He immersed himself in his music in order to forget the bleakness of the present. The sound that came forth was nothing but a long, terrible, and magnificent sob into which poor Erik poured out his accursed misery.

There, in the moonlight beside the spring-fed pond, he played for Christine. A gentle breeze carried the strains of _The Resurrection of Lazarus_ all the way back to the house, where Bruguière kept watch over Aurelia.

When the wind was blowing in the right direction, Édouard could hear the violin playing if he strained his ears. He wondered if he would ever forget the mournful sound of it, and for the first time since learning of Christine's death, he wept.

He cried for Erik.

-0-0-0-

As the days passed, the glint of madness left Erik's disparate eyes, and their incomparable sadness was replaced with a kind of mournful resignation that was appropriate for a grieving widower. Édouard accepted that Erik would never be the same without Christine at his side, but he was encouraged by the obvious attachment the man had for his daughter. It was impossible not to love her. The little imp had her mother's way about her, even at this tender age. It was plain to see that she was now the queen of Erik's heart.

For his part, Édouard took to his role of adopted grandfather like a duck to water. Heartened by Erik's improvement, Anna began to fuss at both men, telling them they would make the baby sore by holding her constantly. Worse yet, Anna scolded, she would be spoiled rotten, and demand to be held day and night. Nothing Fru Nystrom could say would dissuade either of them from their constant vigilance, and from doting on the baby who had stolen their hearts—and their wits, as Anna would say.

"You should stay the summer," Erik said one day, out of the blue.

"All summer?" Édouard asked, as if the thought had not crossed his mind.

"It would do you good to get away from the city. Stay with us, and enjoy the fresh country air."

"Perhaps I will. My cases are being looked after by a colleague, and Barthelbe writes that all is well. If nothing else, my absence will teach my clients to appreciate me."

Bruguière stroked his grizzled beard, contemplating the invitation, but when Erik saw his friend glance over at Aurelia's sleeping form, he knew Édouard would stay.

-0-0-0-


	39. Chapter 39

_To Be Loved_  
Chapter 39

HDL

**Authors' Note:** Lizzy and I hope that all of you enjoyed a happy and blessed holiday season. Yes, a little late again this week...but now that the hustle and bustle of Christmas and New Year have passed, we should be able to resume our regular weekend posting schedule.

* * *

"_All things grow with time - except grief." _~An Old Proverb

-0-0-0-

Aurelia's baptism was the first of many rites of passage that she would undergo as she grew up in the small village in Sweden. On this special Sunday, Erik made sure she was dressed in the gown, booties and bonnet that Christine had worked so hard on during the months of her pregnancy, the ensemble trimmed in delicate laces.

At the church, shortly before the service, Erik played a medley of Christine's favorite hymns on the precious violin she had given him. These were the songs she had taken much pleasure in singing, and Erik was oblivious to anything but the music. Next to him stood Édouard, holding the babe, content with his role of godfather and beaming with pride. He had never had a chance to be godfather to his sister's child, who had followed its mother to the grave shortly after being born, and so he treasured the opportunity and the responsibilities that came with the role all the more.

When the pastor indicated that it was time, Erik took Aurelia and, with Édouard to stand as sponsor for the child, stepped to the front of the church. Erik held the bundled infant over the baptismal font as instructed and watched with fixed curiosity as sanctified water was poured over the baby's head. Aurelia blinked but did not cry. Erik smiled. It was then that he knew she would love the water and swimming in it as much as her mother had.

The event was carefully recorded in the little book that Erik and Christine had been given at their marriage in Germany, as well as in the record books of the old cathedral in Gamla Uppsala.

_Aurelia Daaé Delacorte, born March 5, 1883. Mother, Christine Daaé, deceased March 19, 1883. Father, Erik Delacorte_.

To Erik's way of thinking, these records were more than mere pieces of paper. They were evidence to the world that Christine had found him worthy of being loved, and their daughter was the living proof of her commitment to him.

-0-0-0-

"One of the things I regret the most is that Aurelia will never know her mother."

It was the evening after the baptism, and Erik and Édouard were sitting in the parlor. Erik was sipping on a cup of the strong coffee that the Swedes were fond of (and for which he had developed a taste) while Édouard puffed on a cigar, enjoying the feeling of fulfillment that came with polishing off one of Fru Nystrom's delicious meals. The attorney furrowed his brow and blew a few smoke rings as he considered Erik's comments, coming up with an idea.

"Why don't you write a book about Christine?" he said, stabbing the air with his cigar for emphasis. "With your talent for the written word, you could recreate her for your daughter. Let Aurelia see her mother through your eyes." _And at the same time, you could work out some of your grief_, he thought to himself.

The idea took Erik by surprise, but the more he considered it, the more it appealed to him. At last, he allowed a small, tentative expression of happiness to spread across his face. "Yes, I could. Édouard, you have come up with an excellent idea. Besides my memoires of Christine, I could include sketches of her along with the songs she would sing…not to mention the stories she used to tell. Yes, I'll do this. Thank you."

Édouard sat back, pleased that he'd once again been able to help his friend.

The next day, Erik sat at his desk, pen in hand, and stared glumly at the blank paper in front of him. Last night he had looked forward to this task, but now he wasn't sure he was up to it. The terrible gaping wound in his heart was only just beginning to heal. Would it really help to reopen it by writing about the short time he and Christine had together?

_You must write now, while the memories are fresh._

His head shot up and he took a quick glance about the room, knowing full well that he was alone. Édouard was looking after Aurelia, having assumed the role of surrogate grandfather with all the enthusiasm of a true grandparent, while Anna and Oskar promised that they would do their best to keep household distractions at bay. Then he caught it, the whiff of perfume in the air, the clean scent of irises that had been Christine's favorite. There had been a time when hearing voices would have made him doubt his sanity, but no more. Was it only his imagination, or was it a message from the beyond? It didn't matter. What mattered was that the voice brought him reassurance and peace of mind. He smiled.

"Yes, my dearest beloved. I'll do this…if only for you."

His enthusiasm for the project restored, he began to write, and over the next few weeks, he penned his memories of Christine. Blank pages were filled with words as he poured onto them all his joy and sadness. He wanted his daughter to one day know her mother as he knew her. He wrote about Christine – how they met, how she had saved him from himself and brought meaning and sanity back to his life, and in the end, given him the greatest joy in the world – a daughter. To accompany the book, he made sketches and drawings. Some were of Christine in Paris – on the stage, the night of her debut, the moment he realized he loved her. Others were of their short time together in Sweden – by the spring-fed pool, picking wild strawberries, holding their daughter the day she was born.

When the volume was finished, he put it alongside Christine's diary and locked them both away in his desk. Aurelia was far too young to read them now. Many years would have to pass before she would be old enough to understand these two books, but when she read them, Erik felt certain that they would help the child know where she came from, and of her mother's love. In the meantime, he would take Aurelia with him on regular visits to her mother's grave and teach her to decorate it flowers. He would take her to the hidden pond and teach her to swim. It was, after all, a place Christine loved. Christine might be gone, but she would remain an integral part of their lives. He vowed to be both mother and father to the child, and to do all for her that he imagined Christine might have done, insofar as humanly possible.

His task completed, Erik stood and looked around the study, filled with a feeling of satisfaction over a job well done, and he could not help but feel that Christine was there with him, smiling her approval.

-0-0-0-

By midsummer, Aurelia was sitting up with support, and had even begun to roll over. She clearly recognized her father, and would bounce up and down with joy and reach out for him when he entered a room. One day, she surprised her faithful audience by calling for him.

"Fa," she said, clapping her little hands together. "Fafafafa FA!"

Erik stared at her, transfixed and motionless.

Édouard tapped him on the shoulder. "I believe she is speaking to you. I distinctly heard my godchild say, 'Fader.' Isn't that Swedish for 'father'?"

Erik frowned. "How do you know? What if I don't want to be called 'Fader'? Surely there's something more dignified." He picked up his daughter, who laid her head on his shoulder and patted his cheek. "Anna," he called. "How do you say 'Honored Parent' in Swedish?"

Anna poked her head around the corner of the kitchen door. "Herr Erik!" she clucked as disapprovingly as a wet hen, but smiled when she saw the expression on his face. He was teasing, and she knew it.

Clearly, Erik was overjoyed with Aurelia's progress, and he had developed a graceful humor about her milestones that was infectious. She liked nothing better than being outdoors and hearing her father play the violin, so he accommodated her as often as possible. When the weather was warm, he made a habit of taking Aurelia regularly to her mother's grave. There, he would talk to Christine and tell her how well their daughter was doing. On other days, he would take Aurelia for brief picnics by the spring pond, and he would tell her all about her mother before lulling her to sleep with a song.

For his part, Édouard ordered a pram from Paris complete with lace linens, the kind specially made for promenades along the Champs-Élysées. When it arrived, Erik chided him for the extravagance. "This is completely out of place in the country. You should have saved your money. She was perfectly content with her wicker basket."

"Nothing but the best for my goddaughter," Édouard replied, refusing to let Erik ruffle his feathers. "Besides, we must spoil her while we can. Before you know it, she'll be off to university and we'll have little say in how she lives her life."

The mere suggestion that Aurelia would one day grow up and leave home would cause Erik to became gloomy and despondent, but grow up she would. And the day would come when she would leave, but not now. Not any time in the near future.

-0-0-0-

The warmth of summer began to give way to the first hints of autumn, and regretfully, Bruguière prepared to take his leave. Erik, too, was sad to see him go. Over the summer, the two had cemented a strong bond of friendship, a friendship Erik had never expected but one that he welcomed. Throughout his life, he had never had a friend other than Christine, and suddenly here was Édouard, acting as agent, confidante, friend, and father. He supposed this is what it meant to be able to trust another man, and to be trusted in return. He could confide in and feel comfortable with this man, sitting around and saying nothing if that was what the mood called for.

The night before Bruguière was to leave for Uppsala and catch the train to Stockholm, the two sat in just such companionable silence. Then Erik spoke.

"You saved me from madness and grief."

"Nonsense. You saved yourself. I only gave you a nudge now and then."

Promises were made to keep in touch, and Bruguière vowed that he would come to Gamla Uppsala whenever his schedule permitted, or if Erik ever had need of him. He had a goddaughter to look after! As they talked about the future, Erik actually agreed that when she got older, it would be good for Aurelia to visit her "Uncle" Édouard in Paris from time to time.

"No need for her to continually rusticate up here in the wild north with her grumpy old father," Erik said, half in jest, hating the mere thought of Aurelia leaving even for short trips, but knowing that it would eventually be what she needed.

When the day finally came for Édouard to depart, it was a solemn occasion. He had become a fixture on the farm, and the kid goats followed him everywhere. They knew that he kept tasty treats for them in his pockets to distract them while he milked the nanny goats, and they pulled at his clothing all the way to the cart that would carry him back to town. Erik watched as he scratched his favorite one behind the ears, and called him "Petit Guillaume" ("Little Billy") after his old friend and fellow attorney, Guillaume Agnelet. He said it was so named because this kid was particularly inquisitive and annoying, but saying it never failed to bring a smile to his wrinkled face.

"That one will make a particularly fine roast," Erik said teasingly.

Édouard peered at him over his spectacles and straightened his coat. "You wouldn't dare."

"I warned you not to name anything you plan to eat. It's an unnecessary complication when one lives on a farm."

"I'll be back next summer, and I expect to see my goat alive and well when I return."

"_Your_ goat? May I remind you that this is _my_ farm?"

"You heard me, you gruff old devil. Surely you are not so heartless as to—" He broke off when he saw Aurelia reaching down to pat Little Billy on the top of his head. No need to worry about that particular goat, not any more. He could leave in peace, knowing that Aurelia's affection for the creature would guarantee its safety.

Oskar led the horse and cart to the front of the house and loaded Bruguière's luggage and trunks into the back while the two friends avoided eye contact and made small talk. When at last it was impossible to delay any longer, Édouard leaned forward to give Aurelia a goodbye kiss, and was rewarded with a hug from his goddaughter.

"Ed-DEE!" she proclaimed, grasping his curly grey beard in her tight little fist and yanking it until the man winced. "Ed-DEE ha da."

"I think that means 'I love you,' but I'm not certain. It might also mean, 'Uncle Eddie smells like a goat,'" Erik deadpanned.

"Don't forget me, little one," Édouard whispered in her ear. Louder, he added, "Make your mean old daddy bring you to see me. How about it, Erik? Christmas in Paris?" He turned his attention back to the child and whispered conspiratorially, "Pere Noel brings little Parisian children the nicest little toys!"

"Off with you," Erik said, fighting back a laugh. "And don't forget that you're spending next summer with us on the farm."

"What farm?" Édouard retorted. You don't plant the fields. You don't slaughter the animals. This is a writer's retreat, that's what it is."

"Call it what you will, but don't forget to come back." He studied the horizon before adding, "We'll miss you."

Édouard harrumphed and climbed into the seat next to Oskar. "You won't miss my cigars, though." He waved at them both as the cart pulled away, and when well away from the homestead, he brushed away his tears.

-0-0-0-

Erik threw himself into his work after Édouard's departure, but he maintained his devoted vigilance to Aurelia. He missed having Bruguière around, and without the distraction of a houseguest, he missed Christine more than ever. His years of exile underneath the opera had at least afforded him the opportunity to eavesdrop on conversations and to enjoy artistic endeavors of the highest quality. No matter how much he loved his daughter and enjoyed watching her grow, he needed the company of other adults. Craved it, even.

As winter set in and daylight dwindled, he realized he was desperately lonely, despite the constant contact with Aurelia and the benign interest shown him by the Nystroms. He surprised himself by renewing communication with Mme Giry, the woman who'd once been his partner in crime (as he jokingly thought of her) and who later covered up the evidence of his misdeeds by exposing the larceny of the former opera house managers. She was also the person who'd sent Christine to find him. To this day, he did not understand why she'd taken such an interest in him, but she did, so he sat down one night and wrote a lengthy letter detailing everything that had happened the past year. The woman deserved at least that much.

Giry had responded with a letter of condolence, which bore the faint traces of a stain. Had he not known her better, he might have suspected that a tear had fallen as she wrote it. The staid woman he recalled was far too cold and uncaring to have given Christine's passing a second thought. Little Meg had often borne the brunt of her mother's strict upbringing. Yet the letter was followed by brightly colored presents for Aurelia, packages that contained the kinds of items that Christine would have wanted her daughter to have. One was a small, silly looking monkey made from socks. Erik had scoffed at the notion that the old biddy would have made it herself, and suspected that she had picked it up in a flea market. Aurelia loved it, though, and it accompanied her to bed every night.

Soon, the long winter night had descended upon them, and they hunkered into their cozy home like hibernating bears. Heavy snows made it difficult for the Nystroms to travel to and from their own home, so occasionally they would stay for several days at a time with the Delacortes, which Erik found oddly comforting. It helped to know that there were others who could look after Aurelia, should the need arise.

As Yuletide approached, decorations that Christine had made with her own hands gradually emerged from the cedar chest where Anna had stored them after her mistress's untimely death. It seemed that, after nine months of mourning, it was time. The effect was startling.

Erik may have embraced the darkness, but he'd have none of it for his daughter. He threw off the sullen mantle that had settled around him like a second skin, and delighted in showing her the paper hearts and flags that Christine had made. He told her how her mother had decorated their home and brought color and light into it. The pierced tin lantern shades that she had very much enjoyed once again adorned candles that glowed brightly on the windowsills. Memories of life with Christine flooded his mind, filling him with gratitude. Their time together was short, but blissful. He had only to look at little Aurelia to count his blessings.

Last year at Yule, they were as happy as could be. Christine was fussing about her rapidly expanding girth, but Erik relished the fact that she was gravid with his child. For a moment, he became lost in his memories, but was interrupted from his reverie by baby Aurelia, tugging on his pants legs. She had crawled over to her father and had begun whimpering to be picked up and held.

"You don't need me to pick you up, child," he said to her with mock severity, grinning when she cocked her head and gave him a puzzled stare. "You charming little sprite!" he said, at once yielding to her will. He set her on his knee and began to bounce his heel gently against the floor, giving her a pony ride in the process. She rewarded him with a gleeful shriek and began gnawing on his forearm with her toothless gums. "By spring, you'll be walking and I'll be chasing you around the house before you wreak havoc." He made note of the way her lower lip stuck out as she pouted at him, certain that it bespoke her natural urges to go a-Viking. He laughed at himself for anticipating the worst, and for dwelling on it. His child was stubborn and headstrong, that much was already obvious, but she was also showing a keen interest in music and an aptitude for learning.

When he clucked his tongue, she did her best to imitate the sound he made. If he sang to her, she swayed to and fro, in her first efforts to dance. It was true that her complexion was paler than her mother's, but her hair was bright red. One day, Anna claimed, it would darken to a lovely auburn, and it brought out the color of her eyes. They were ice blue for the most part, but one (as Bruguière had seen) was partly brown, marked with a crescent-shaped smudge on the iris. To Erik, the blemish was captivating, because it proved that this child was both himself and Christine, embodied in one living being. The thought of it took his breath away. "If only your mother were here to see you!" he sighed, clasping her to his chest. He turned the baby in his arms, hugged her, and reached for a string of Christine's paper hearts that hung nearby and fascinated the baby. He dangled them midair, just out of her reach, and entertained her with simple sleight-of-hand until it was time for her bedtime bottle.

_A piano,_ he thought. _We'll need a piano, if I am to instruct her in music properly. _He wrote a note to himself to check into it when the weather was warmer. Perhaps Aurelia would enjoy riding into town. Oskar had been boasting of readying the sleigh, and the sound of tinkling bells would be charming. Christine would have wanted it, of that he was sure.

As December drew to a close, the celebration of Christmas at the Delacortes' house was a solemn occasion. The wreath of candles that Christine had worn the year before was set on a sideboard, a sad reminder of her loss. Erik played music at the old cathedral, as Christine would have wanted, but his heart wasn't in it. He had little in common with the country folk. They were good people, to be sure. They accepted him, and would make a fine extended family for his child. Christine had taught him that, however distasteful he found it, he needed to reach out to other people, but he wasn't sure _these _were the people she had meant. Édouard's invitation was sounding better all the time. One day, when Aurelia was old enough to travel, maybe he would take him up on the invitation to visit Paris, and show Aurelia all the places her mother loved—but that day was far off in the future.

-0-0-0-

The years passed all too quickly, and in the blink of an eye, Aurelia had grown into a tomboy, roving the surrounding forest and fields without a care in the world. She may have had her mother's charm and _joie de vivre_, but she also had her father's sense of adventure and insatiable curiosity. Like all Swedes who endure a long, dark winter, she embraced the sunlight and warm weather that summer brought. It was her favorite time of the year.

Erik kept a watchful eye over her, but allowed her the freedom to explore the world around their home as long as her chores were completed and her studies unaffected by her roaming. He taught her himself, and insisted on an unconventional education. She learned Swedish, French, German, and Italian and though she favored the piano, she was an excellent cellist. Erik often accompanied her on the violin, and occasionally she would play duets with him on the church organ in the old cathedral in Gamla Uppsala. There were many in the congregation who regaled her with stories of her mother, and she especially enjoyed hearing about how beautifully her mother sang, but she had little patience for the starched collars and tight shoes required when she attended church. What she loved best, when the weather permitted, was running barefoot across the fields and swimming in the hidden pond not far from home.

Aurelia suffered the normal childhood traumas of skinned knees, sprains, and strained muscles, but she was remarkably healthy. "You and your father never get sick," Anna would say. "You will live forever!" Erik would frown inexplicably, his brow creasing momentarily, and when Aurelia was older, she realized that at those times, he was missing her mother. She'd wrap her arms around him, kiss his bare cheek, and refuse to let go until he was smiling again.

She had grown tall and strong exploring the nooks and crannies of the countryside, and the neighbors found her to be a familiar sight as she walked the hills. She was welcome everywhere she went, and so was Erik.

-0-0-0-

"Father, may I spend the night with my friends?"

Erik looked up from his writing and into the pleading eyes of his twelve-year-old daughter, the dusting of freckles on her nose more prominent for her having been spending most of her waking hours playing out of doors. Through the window came the strains of music and laughter, reminding him that today was Midsummer's Eve, which all the village was celebrating in grand style. Fond memories of another Midsummer's Eve flooded his mind, and it took his daughter's voice to bring him out of his musings.

"May I?" she asked, her request more insistent.

"And what will you and your friends be doing tonight?"

"Really, Father. Need you ask?" she replied, sounding awfully grownup for her age. "We're going to pick our dream bouquets."

Erik sputtered. He remembered all too clearly what a dream bouquet meant; Christine had told him about it, and had firmly believed that it had revealed her destiny to her. It meant that Aurelia was thinking of…boys! Erik could have sworn he felt the ground move under his feet, and grasped the arms of his chair for support. "You're...what? No! You are too young for such things."

"Am not!" she said defiantly. "Why, I'm practically a woman grown." And there it was—the same pout on her pretty lips that had made him yield to her demands when she was but a babe.

Erik sighed. "I suppose if I say no and lock you in your room, you will simply sneak out when I'm not looking."

Aurelia didn't immediately reply but assumed her most innocent expression. "Father, we both know better than that. Why, that old lock has never worked. Besides, if I really wanted to go out, a locked door wouldn't stop me. Are you not the one who taught me how to open doors at my command?" She wiggled her fingers at the doorway to Erik's study and ordered, "Open sesame!" before dissolving into giggles.

"A parlor trick," he growled. "And I'm already regretting showing it to you. But my dear, why must you stay out all night, carousing with the other girls? Do they really hold such fascination for you?" He wasn't sure if he was speaking of her girlfriends or of (heaven forbid) boys. He threw his hands in the air, already knowing what Christine would have said. "Oh, very well. Just...be careful."

Aurelia threw her arms around her father's neck and kissed him on the cheek. "Thank you! I shall," she said and dashed out the room.

Later that night, he attended the bonfire as was the custom, but withdrew to the fringes of the woods once the celebrants began pairing off into couples heading for trysts. From a discreet distance, he kept a careful watch over Aurelia, pleased to see her staying with a group of girls her own age. They picked their dream bouquets, and withdrew to one of the girl's houses, where they would spend the night laughing and gabbing until the cock crowed. It was obvious that there would be little, if any, sleep that night, and he found himself reminded of those times in Paris when the ballet rats would stay awake all night long, chattering away in spite of Mme Giry's best efforts. Girls, it seemed, were the same the world over. When he saw her at breakfast the next morning, he asked her if she had indeed dreamed about her future husband.

Aurelia beamed with pleasure. "Oh, yes! He is tall and has blond hair, and is very handsome."

"That pretty much describes every young male in Sweden," he said.

"Yes, it does, doesn't it?" She poured milk over a bowl of fresh berries and dug into them with relish, while Erik scowled at his cup of strong, black coffee. "Don't worry, Father," she chirped. "I'm not planning to get married for a long, long time."

"Good," he said, surprised at the relief he felt. "I have yet to meet the young man who is worthy of my daughter."

Her mouth stuffed full of food, she did not answer, but only wrinkled her nose at him, as her mother had often done when she was exasperated with him.

Erik sighed, knowing that by the time she was in her mid-teens, many a young man's heart would be broken for the love of Aurelia Delacorte, but for now, she was not interested in romance. She seemed to sense, even at this age, that her destiny lay elsewhere.

-0-0-0-

True to his promise, Édouard Bruguière visited Gamla Uppsala every summer. He was a faithful friend and a doting godfather, and always brought a trunk full of playthings and books for his goddaughter, especially bestselling novels, because he knew Erik's library was devoted entirely to nonfiction. If Aurelia were to have a glimpse of the outside world, he would need to provide it himself. He also brought a few of the latest fashions appropriate for a girl her age, along with newspapers and magazines filled with illustrations of women in elaborate costumes that were meant for promenading along fashionable streets.

He took pride in the fact that his goddaughter's manners were impeccable, and was pleased to see that she was receiving an education beyond that of any university student. With a father like Erik, would anything less be expected? Yet she was, in many ways, a simple country girl, sheltered from the outside world, and so he took it upon himself to provide her with a glimpse of what lay just beyond her grasp, outside the haven of the Delacorte farm. On the occasion of her eighteenth birthday, this was especially important.

"Oh, Uncle Eddie! It's extraordinary! You shouldn't have," she said, holding up a ball gown the color of a golden sunset. She clasped it to her breast, enjoying the contrast of the soft fabric against the homespun chemise and simple apron that she wore. The fine satin fabric of the gown glowed in the light pouring through the large double window of the parlor, where Aurelia had torn open the trunk in search of the loot she knew her godfather had brought with him from Paris. She spun around like a dancer, as graceful as could be. "You spoil me terribly, and I love you for it!" she said, planting a kiss on the old man's forehead. "Where ever shall I wear it in Gamla Uppsala?" She turned to her father. "You must take me to the opera, Father! I know there is a theater in the city, and you've always said you would take me there when I was old enough to see the opera. I'm eighteen now. Isn't that old enough?"

"Uncle" Édouard gasped. The years had treated him kindly, but at sixty-three, he was looking forward to retirement. "The opera? Why, if you wish to see an opera, you should come and visit me in Paris." He turned when he heard a low rumble emanating from Erik's direction. "Why not? Every winter, I ask you to visit me, to get away from the long, dark months of lovely Gamla Uppsala. Why don't the two of you come and stay with me during opera season?"

"It's out of the question," Erik grumbled. "I have my work to consider. Besides, I'm too old to be gadding about Europe."

"Bah! You're still a young man. You're not a day over fifty, unless my eyes deceive me, and you could work just as easily from my apartment as you can from here. There are plenty of rooms for you to rattle about it. No one will interrupt you."

"No one would dare," Aurelia said, immediately regretting letting it slip out. "What I meant to say was, Father doesn't like to be disturbed."

Erik shot her a withering glare. "Your mother wanted you to grow up here, away from the city," he said, spitting out the last word as though it were poison. "Not to mention its corrupting influences."

Aurelia rolled her eyes. "As I recall, you said she entered the conservatory when she was younger than I am, and was living on her own."

Bruguière cocked an eyebrow and looked askance at Erik. "You can't keep her cooped up here forever. The girl needs to spread her wings!"

"She has everything she needs here," Erik snapped. He turned his back on them, hands clasped tightly behind his back. He stared out the window, his gaze centered far off on the point where Christine's grave lay.

The girl laid the gown carefully across the wooden settee in front of the large double window, and slipped her arms around her father's waist. She rested her head on his shoulder for a few moments. The room fell painfully silent, so quiet that one could hear the men's pocket watches ticking away. "He's right," she said quietly. "Father has given me everything I need."

"Of course he has. He's an excellent father, and a good provider. I'm not asking him to throw you to the wolves. I'm asking him to let you travel. See the world, broaden the mind. That sort of thing." He didn't care to engage Erik in a debate, but if there was one skill at which he excelled, it was arbitration. "Paris is only one suggestion. If not Paris, why not Hamburg? As I recall, you were married in Hamburg. Aurelia might enjoy seeing some of the places that hold fond memories for you."

Erik bowed his head and spoke in a whisper. "A good provider? That's what her mother said." He turned and hugged his daughter before kissing the top of her head. She was taller than Christine, and in the afternoon light, her long auburn hair had an especially lovely red glow. He cocked his head to one side and looked at her seriously. Gone was the little girl who climbed trees and ran barefoot through the meadows. Standing before him was a gamine, a girl on the cusp of womanhood. "When did this happen?" he asked. "Where did my little girl go?" He touched the ends of her hair, which hung loose about her shoulders, and seemed lost in thought.

"A compromise," Édouard muttered. "She's asking for tickets to the theater in Uppsala, and I'm talking about a Grand Tour. All she wants is to venture forth and get a glimpse of what's beyond her little corner of the world. How about it, Erik? What harm can there be? When you and Christine were her age…."

"Yes," Erik said, closing his eyes for a moment. "We were both making our own way in the world. I've done my best to spare Aurelia that difficulty." He followed her gaze, which was focused on the headlines of the newspapers Édouard had stashed among the many gifts he had brought from Paris. In Aurelia's haste to bring out the beautiful dress, one of the papers had fallen, and its pages lay strewn on the floor. Erik scanned the headlines, pausing to read one aloud. "Treasure found at swan lake. Local jeweler claims magnificent emerald ring belonged to the Phantom."

Bruguière's jaw went slack. He'd had no idea what was inside the newspaper, and had heard nothing of the ring. He'd been immersed in his own work right up until he departed for the train station two days earlier. Besides, Erik had never mentioned such a ring before. Had he? "What can it mean?" he asked.

Erik snorted. "It means, my dear friend, that a trip to Paris is in order after all."

Aurelia squealed with delight, and jumped up and down. In her excitement she forgot about the mysterious ring, thinking only of the promise of adventure. "Paris! We're going to Paris, at last!" She ran into the hallway, crying, "Anna! Did you hear? I'm going to the opera!"

"Bruguière," Erik snapped angrily. "Contact that clerk of yours, and ask him to find out how I can get back my _property_."

"Of course, Erik," Édouard said softly. "Is there anything else you'd like to say to me? I hope you don't think I planned this—"

"Of course not," Erik said, scoffing. He dragged his hand down the side of his face, and turned away from his old friend, removing the mask briefly to wipe the perspiration from beneath it. When he had finished, he looked at Bruguière and said, "This is what I get for thinking I could leave the world behind me."

-0-0-0-


	40. Chapter 40

**To Be Loved**  
**Chapter 40**

January 9, 2011

**Authors' Note:** _First, many thanks to all of you who are reading and enjoying this story. And to those of you who left a review and to whom I didn't reply…my apologies. My only excuse? I…I have none! I just got too busy doing other things. Yes, it's true – Lizzy and I DO have a life outside of Phantom, and sometimes we just get caught up in them. ;-) We're happy to read how many of you are looking forward to more about Aurelia…and so without further ado, here's chapter 40. And extra credit to anyone who can find the passage from Leroux that we borrowed._ ~HDK

-0-0-0-

"_It is good to have an end to journey toward; but it is the journey that matters, in the end."_

~Ursula K. LeGuin

-0-0-0-

Aurelia dashed out of the room to tell Anna the good news, while Édouard moaned at the thought of returning to Paris so soon after his arrival in Gamla Uppsala. He immediately set his mind on the matter of the ring. "Give me the details," he told Erik, "and I'll wire my clerk, Barthelbe, with instructions regarding this story." He rapped the newspaper with his knuckles. "He can begin the work of restoring your property while we are en route."

"I'll need a day or two to make arrangements," Erik said quietly. He stared at the toe of his shoe long and hard. "I…haven't left the place since we arrived. It's been almost twenty years."

"You have nothing to fear," Édouard said. He reached out and shook Erik's elbow ever so carefully. "You're a famous author. If you weren't so demmed reclusive, the booksellers would arrange a tickertape parade for you."

The faint trace of a smile creased Erik's cheek. On impulse, he touched the corner of his mask and began to sway to and fro, ever so slightly on his feet. It was a nervous tic that he hadn't displayed in years. "Imagine it. The Phantom, returning to Paris. I never thought I'd be seeing the city again."

A few days passed while the household made preparations for the trip. Aurelia danced about the house on air, thrilled with the notion of a great adventure ahead of her. She gave no regard to the reason for the trip, but Barthelbe sent numerous wires regarding the ring. The jeweler maintained that Erik had abandoned his property, and went so far as to announce a gala event showcasing the entire ensemble. Despite having been at the bottom of a murky lake for many years, the ring was in excellent condition, having been protected by the case in which it was ensconced. Barthelbe had threatened to sue him, which Erik forbade. He did not want more publicity to come of the matter. Instead, he instructed Bruguière to offer the jeweler a large sum of money for the collection.

Barthelbe replied by wire. "He says that he will return it to you if you agree to make a public appearance, and endorse him as your personal jeweler."

Erik smiled wryly as he read the telegram. "A publicity stunt! Ha! I'll hand it to him. He's a good businessman. He knows how to promote himself."

Bruguière squinted as a thought niggled the back of his mind, wherein Erik would simply enter the shop after hours, and take what was rightfully his. "You're not thinking of doing anything rash, are you?"

"Why ever would you suspect that?" Erik asked, affecting his most innocent expression. "Have I said or done anything to indicate that I might even consider such a dastardly course of action?"

Édouard scoffed. "Don't take any chances. That's all I ask. You know it would upset Aurelia if anything were to happen to you." He watched as his closest friend stood up straight and tall, towering over him. Though he had long ago ceased to intimidate Édouard, the sight of Erik at his full height gave a man pause.

"Give him what he wants," Erik said, spitting out the words. "The money means nothing to me. If he won't sell my ring and the loose stones back to me, then I will appear once—and only once—at his store at a time and day of my own choosing. I have a daughter who might enjoy wearing those gems, and I mean for her to have them." And that was the end of the discussion.

-0-0-0-

"What are you after, little one?" Édouard leaned down and scratched Petit Guillaume between the ears. Little Billy had grown into a fine goat, sporting short, sharp horns that curved towards his back, and he wasn't afraid to use them. Édouard felt the stab of one of the prongs whenever he was too slow in producing a treat for the shaggy beast. This time he had the stub of a carrot in hand, and used it to distract Little Billy while he waited for Erik and Aurelia to come outside.

"I think they are packing the whole house," he said to the goat, and smiled when it cocked its head from side to side as if trying to understand the man.

Quite unaware that he was being watched, Édouard sat down on the front steps and waited, enjoying the sunny afternoon. The trip ahead might be daunting, considering Erik's mercurial nature, but he was looking forward to showing Aurelia the places she longed to see—especially Paris. After the initial excitement of the trip had worn off, she had become increasingly curious about the emerald ring and how it came to be in the swan lake. He hoped that Erik would explain it to her, perhaps even take her there and show her where he had courted her mother, but Erik had offered no explanation of how the ring came to be at the bottom of the lake. It was a miracle that it had been found when the lake was drained for the purpose of installing an ornate fountain. He shook his grey head and laughed when the goat did the same. As for himself, he could only guess what had happened all those years ago.

In the meantime, Erik was a short distance away, packing the last of the clothing that he planned to take to Paris. From the second floor of the house, he paused to glance out the bedroom window across the field towards the churchyard where Christine had lain these many years. His chest ached at the thought of leaving her, and he imagined that if he willed it, her spirit might follow him on the journey. He could not bear the thought of leaving her here alone, not even for the short time that this errand would require. He whispered to her, letting his dulcet voice drift on the wind, hoping that it would be carried to her…wherever she might be.

"The night you made your debut, I left the opera wondering if there was anyone else in the world quite like you: one of equal charm, equal power of gaining hearts, and equal disdain of the hearts you conquered. The last glance of those mysterious emerald-green eyes fell upon a dozen or so of the young men seeking your attention, and everybody but me thought the last glance was for him. I had known you too long to be deceived by my own foolish Hope. Since you were a schoolgirl, freshly arrived at the conservatory, I knew you. Yet even in those early days, you were as puzzling in your apparent frankness and real reserve as you were in the end. Oh, Christine! You knew from the start how I loved and admired you. I did not understand you, nor hoped to, nor even wished to! Had I known exactly what you were, you would have lost to me something of your indefinable fascination. All I knew is that I loved you, and that was enough."

His head snapped 'round when he heard a floorboard creaking behind him. Aurelia was in the hallway, watching him worriedly. Surely, she had been too far away to have heard what he was saying. He was totally taken aback when she asked shyly, "Father…do you love me?"

He opened his arms, inviting her in for a hug. "Of course I do,' he said as she nestled in his arms. "What brought this on?"

She buried her head in his shoulder. "It's just that, at times I've felt like more of a—well, not a burden, exactly—but more of an obligation to you than a joy. If you had known that Mother would…that she wouldn't be here, would you have wanted me anyway?"

Choked with emotion, his reply was strained. "I loved your mother very much, but that doesn't mean that I don't love you." He kissed the top of her head while his brow wrinkled with worry. "I've failed you—and your mother—if you doubt that."

Her reply was barely audible. "You always seem so sad. I want you to be happy."

Erik let a small laugh escape. "What do you mean? I am happy. You're a good daughter. I have every reason to be happy." He held her tighter in his strong arms.

"You've been a wonderful father—truly excellent," she said tentatively. "I couldn't have asked for a better, more caring father. You've educated me, taught me how to be the person that I am. And you've set aside a tidy sum that should keep me comfortable for the rest of my life, if I am careful. You've done everything you were supposed to do."

He thought of the trust fund that he had set aside in her name, a sizable sum of which she did not yet know. This was hardly the time to discuss financial matters. "I sense a caveat in there."

She grinned, a little embarrassed by what she was about to admit. He knew her too well to prevaricate, so she screwed her courage to the sticking post and sallied forth.

"But…you haven't…I don't know…progressed. Oh, you're productive, all right. You're still choirmaster at the church. You're writing books under various pen names about a dozen subjects. And you've managed our home admirably. I mean, you're still doing exactly what you were doing when Mother was alive."

"I did what she wanted me to do," he replied stiffly.

"But you never moved on after Mother died," she said in one breathless sentence.

Erik frowned and stared down at his brash young daughter with a pained expression. "You didn't know her."

"You're right. I didn't have the chance to know her, but I've heard people talking about her when they thought I wasn't listening. Anna and Oskar have spoken of her fondly. And Uncle Eddy talks of her often." She pressed on. "But when you speak of her, it is as though you wish you had died with her."

Her father stepped back and held her at arm's length, unable to reply. He couldn't answer her, because it was true—at least partially. Had he no obligations, no child depending on him, he might have followed Christine into the grave. He stared at his daughter—Christine's daughter—and felt awash with confusion. He had done what Christine asked, hadn't he? He loved Aurelia. He had done his duty as a father. What more was there?

Quietly—oh, so quietly—Aurelia spoke. "Haven't you ever wanted to…be with another woman?"

Erik laughed, quietly at first, and then an out-and-out guffaw. He took a few steps backwards and rubbed his sides as if they ached.

Aurelia blinked. In all innocence, she had no idea what she had implied. "I mean, aren't you the least excited about going to Paris? You must have old friends there. Uncle Eddy has mentioned a woman. I believe her name is Mme Giry."

That sobered him up. "It is true that Mme Giry was a good friend to your mother and to me. She even took an interest in you when you were an infant." How much should he tell her? That Giry had made overtures to him, had suggested that she come to his home, had dared to posit the preposterous notion that she could be a mother to his child? She had even proposed that she be his wife—as if there could ever be a successor to Christine! No, he could not burden the child with such knowledge. "We…drifted apart over the years, and I have no interest in renewing an acquaintance with her," he said simply.

"I…it's only that…I don't want you to be alone," Aurelia replied, hurt from being rebuffed. "One day, I will leave Gamla Uppsala and our quiet home and make my own way. You can't expect me to live here forever." She glanced out the window that held such fascination for her father, searching for the place that held his interest.

"And you are worried that I will sit here and molder, doddering old fool that I am."

"I just don't want you to be alone."

Erik studied her curiously for a moment, and then, with sudden inspiration, he said, "I've been keeping something from you, my child. Something that may help you to understand why…why I prefer my home—and my life—the way it is." He reached into his desk and drew out Christine's journal and the memoirs he wrote shortly after her untimely death. They were bound together by a black ribbon of the finest quality, with a withered, sere rosebud tucked carefully beneath the bow. The flower might once have been red, but aged as it was with time, it was impossible to tell. Volatile oils had spilled out of it with the passing years, staining the fine leather cover as it rested, unopened, lo these many years.

He dragged his fingertips across the surface of the books. Nearly two decades had passed since he had looked at the pages therein. Should he read them again before handing them over? No. This was meant to be. Slowly, carefully, he extended the parcel to his daughter.

She sat in the chair next to the window, puzzlement spread across her pretty face. "What's this?" she asked as she accepted the books from her father. She removed the dried rosebud, tugged at the ribbon, and read the title on the cover of the first book. "Oh…," she whispered, her face slack with surprise. "It's hers, isn't it? My mother's diary?"

Her father nodded. "Also, my...memories."

Aurelia wiped away a tear. "Thank you." She stood up so quickly that Erik nearly lost his balance, and threw herself into his arms.

"Go," he said gently. "Finish packing, and try not to stay up all night reading. We have a long, long trip ahead of us tomorrow."

"Paris," she said wistfully. "It will be a whole new world."

"I will do my best to ensure that you enjoy our little holiday, and that Paris is everything you hope it will be." He gave a little bow and waved his hand with a flourish.

Aurelia giggled. She sounded so much like Christine, Erik's heart leaped. "One more thing," he added hurriedly. "When you read your mother's journal, bear in mind that everything she wrote about me is true." He laughed sarcastically. "I wasn't always the dashing gentleman you see before you."

"Don't worry. I know why mother loved you."

"You do?" He had never figured it out. How could she know?

"You think of everything. You're protective and caring, and most of all, you make the people you love feel as though they are the center of the Universe." She kissed his cheek below the mask where the skin began to turn angry red and wrinkled, and she left the room to find a quiet place where she could explore the treasure trove he had handed her.

"That's because those I love are _everything_ to me," he said aloud, knowing no one could hear him.

-0-0-0-

Eventually, the day came to depart the homestead in Gamla Uppsala. Mrs. Nystrom was teary-eyed and made Aurelia promise to write. Oskar promised to look after the place, and especially Little Billy. Erik spent the last night walking through the forest paths surrounding the hidden pond, lost in thought, while the others finished packing.

The ocean voyage from Sweden to Germany was uneventful. Aurelia's excitement was infectious, and in spite of his dour tendencies, Erik began to recall places they would encounter along the way, places that held fond memories for him. There was the little inn where he and Christine had been married, for instance. He would be sure to stop along the way and see if it was still standing. He found himself thinking more and more about Paris, and especially about the opera house. Yes. He must show it to Aurelia, because it was a part of her origins. It was the place where he had met Christine, where their story had begun.

Sure enough, Aurelia had been delighted with the inn, though it had long ago changed hands. Erik explained how it had looked on the wedding day, and how the innkeeper had prepared a special wedding feast for them. She thought it was ever so romantic and said that one day, she hoped she would return there, perhaps for her own honeymoon. If she heard the grumble that arose from the center of her father's being, she ignored it.

Erik knew his daughter had been unable to open the books and read them before their departure from Gamla Uppsala. Somehow, her father's comments had unnerved her, and she found herself looking for excuses to avoid reading either the journal or her father's memoirs. It was not until they were on the train from Hamburg to Lille that she overcame her hesitation. Once she began reading them, she could not put them down.

Erik was understandably nervous. He had read Christine's diary shortly after her death, and he knew that she had poured into it all of her concerns, her many reasons for not trusting him, and he knew she had even recorded her puppy love for the dashing young nobleman, Raoul de Chagny. He winced at the recollection of it.

It was an honest revelation of how she came to realize that she truly loved Erik, even though it often showed him in a less than flattering light. He wasn't sure that Aurelia would think much of him after she learned the truth, and he had never realized before how much her opinion of him mattered. While she read in the privacy of her berth, he sat in the smoking compartment with the ever-companionable Bruguière at his side and swirled a mouthful of cognac around his tongue. It had been years since he had enjoyed a libation, but if ever he needed one, it was now.

The landscape that passed outside the train's narrow window segued from coastal plains to gently rolling hills. The last time Erik had seen it, it was devoid of any living thing. War had devastated it. It had been desolate and foreboding—much like himself at the time. Tonight, thanks to the moonlit sky, he could tell that the land was alive again. Field after field had been tilled and planted, and held the promise of a bountiful harvest in the Fall. Over the years, the land had slowly healed. He leaned his head against the windowpane and sighed.

"At this very moment, she is seeing her mother's handwriting for the very first time." He watched his reflection on the glass, gazing at the blurry image of the flesh-colored mask that he never took off in public. "She's reading about the time I was…not myself. When I lived under the opera, like some kind of madman." He smirked. "I was some kind of madman. No wonder Christine was frightened of me."

Bruguière set fire to a cedar spill, a long, thin piece of Spanish wood used to set fire to good cigars. He rolled the tobacco slowly over the flame without actually letting the fire touch the wrapper, first preheating the open end until a black circle formed around it, and then repeating the process after putting the cylinder between his lips. It was a lengthy ritual that Erik watched patiently, having learned long ago that the procedure allowed his old chum time to consider his words wisely before responding. "It isn't all bad. She's also learning how her mother came to admire you, and how she fell in love with you. She'll see you through Christine's eyes."

Erik coughed and waved his hand through the cloud of tobacco smoke. "Those are bad for the voice," he rasped. "Why don't you give up smoking?"

"Don't deprive an old man of one of his few pleasures," Édouard replied, blowing smoke rings over Erik's left shoulder.

Erik got up and straightened his coat. "I'll be turning in now," he said. "Rather than be suffocated by noxious fumes."

"This is why a smoking car was invented," the lawyer replied. He tugged the hem of Erik's coat. "Be sure to say 'good-night' to her for me."

"Aurelia?" Erik asked, pretending he had no idea what his confidant meant.

"I know you are going to speak to her," he replied. "And don't worry, my friend. She will still love you after she reads the diary–perhaps more than ever. Of that, you can be sure." He took note of the slump in Erik's posture. "No matter how grown up she may appear, she is still daddy's little girl," he added.

Erik stood a little straighter before he turned and walked away, leaving Édouard to enjoy his smoke.

A train corridor had never seemed so long, or so fraught with danger. Erik seemed unaffected by the train's lurching along the track. Most men walking about at this hour were thrown side-to-side, but Erik's careful footing carried him straight to the compartment at the end of the car: Aurelia's private sleeping berth.

He knocked gently on the door. With any luck, she would have fallen asleep. He briefly considered letting himself in and removing the journals, but her sweet, clear voice called from within.

"Father? Come in!"

Erik opened the door slightly, and a sliver of light spilled into the hallway. "This should be locked. You're not in Gamla Uppsala anymore." However, when he saw her tear-stained cheeks, he felt weak in the knees. He stepped into the compartment, quiet as a ghost, and sat on the bench beside her.

He braced himself for rejection, or for her disdain and disappointment at the very least. Instead, she wept into his chest, soaking the front of his shirt with her warm tears. She sobbed for a few minutes, before whispering, "Thank you, thank you," over and over.

"You don't hate me too much?"

"Of course not! Not in the least! I had no idea all that you'd been through. Why did you never tell me?"

"About the gypsies? About living underneath the opera house? About kidnapping your mother? Your mother saved me from all that."

"No, not that! About how you and she fell in love! Oh, Father! I can hardly wait to see the swan lake. She wrote all about it. Look here!" She pointed to the passage and read it aloud. "'Today, he almost kissed me! If it had not been for that nasty little dog….'"

He laughed softly. "I had forgotten that."

"And there's more! Look, look here," she said, tapping the paper with a slender finger. "Mother wrote about how much she wanted a baby. That was me! I was that baby!"

"Indeed you were. Did she write about how she chose our little house in Gamla Uppsala?"

A fervent nod was her reply. "And she told about the hidden pond!"

He felt his cheeks grow hot as the blood rose in them. He hadn't blushed in so long, he had almost forgotten how it felt. "I hope she didn't write too much about that place."

"Oh, I can't wait to read it again!" She clutched the diary to her bosom, gazed heavenward, and heaved a sigh of satisfaction.

Such romantic, youthful innocence! He hadn't seen it since—well, not since he first met Christine. "Have you…had a chance to…read my memoirs?" he asked nervously.

"Not yet. I've been savoring every word of Mother's diary."

"Oh." He tried to sound disappointed.

"But don't worry," she continued brightly. "I plan to stay up all night reading."

"Then I'd best leave you to it." He rose and straightened his dinner jacket, lest there be anyone else in the corridor. He always preferred to look his best in public.

"Father? Have I told you lately how much I love you?"

"Every day. But I never tire of hearing it." He turned to leave, but hesitated in the doorway and turned towards her. "Aurelia? Have I told you that I love you, too?"

She beamed at him, with nothing but love in her heart for him. "Every day. Good night, Father."

Without looking at her, he replied, "Try to remember when poring over those journals that although I haven't always been a good man, I'm a better man than I was." She giggled, prompting him to smile weakly. "I must bid you sweet dreams, my child, especially in light of your choice of bedtime reading material."

He closed the door behind him, and waited until he heard the lock slide into place before leaving.

-0-0-0-


	41. Chapter 41

**To Be Loved**  
**Chapter 41**

**By HDKingsbury & MadLizzy  
**

January 16, 2011

**Author's Note:** Another crazy week this past week that included a midnight run to the emergency animal clinic when I found my new puppy chewing on an old mouse bait tray. Goodness knows where he found that! But I couldn't take a chance that he'd ingested any poison, so it was off to the vet in the snow storm. Literally! Sixteen hours and a couple hundred dollars later, we knew he was going to be just fine...but it was the panic and fear in between that threw me off my schedule. BUT...Lizzy and I did finally get this one polished up and ready for posting, and so here you go. Enjoy! ~HD

-0-0-0-

"_How ya gonna keep 'em down on the farm, after they've seen Paree?"_ ~Sam Lewis

-0-0-0-

As the train approached the city limits of Paris, Aurelia could not stay in her seat and kept her nose pressed to the glass of the observation car's long windows.

"Father, look! I can see the city, there in the distance!" She pointed, a gesture he found most unbecoming.

"Aurelia," he said with a slight tone of reproach. "Mind your manners. Young ladies do not point."

"Yes, Father," she replied, her eagerness to see the world not dampened in the slightest. "Oh, this is so exciting! Isn't it wonderful, Uncle?" She bounced excitedly on the balls of her feet while holding onto Édouard's arm.

"Ye-e-es," he said, his brain feeling as if it were rattling around inside his skull. "But if you keep shaking me like this, I may not be around much longer to enjoy it." He smiled to himself when he realized his words made about as much of an impression on her as her father's had. _Ah, the enthusiasm of youth! _

Soon the train began to slow down as it neared the station. "Oh, look!" she squealed as the huge building loomed before them. "The Gare du Nord! Soon we will be disembarking. I can't wait to see it."

"A train station? It's not much different from any of the others we've passed through, only bigger," said Erik. "What makes this one so special?"

"Mother wrote that this is where her adventure started. You know, when she set off to find you."

For a moment, Erik was unable to respond. He shut his eyes and remembered that long-ago night. _Christine, it's been twenty years, yet I miss you as much today as ever. You should be here, with us. I've tried to be the best parent I could, but I know with you at my side, I could have done so much better._ He kept his eyes shut, conjuring Christine's image in his mind's eye.

_But I am here. Remember? I am always with you._

His eyes shot open and his eyes darted around the car. Of course, she wasn't here, but it was reassuring to know she was still with him in spirit.

-0-0-0-

Springtime in Paris! What could be more wonderful? Nothing, as far as Aurelia was concerned. Everything intrigued her. Nothing was insignificant, from the humble street vendors to the flashy motor cars that went speeding past (and that her father eyed disdainfully). She giggled when she heard him mumble, "If God had wanted people to go that fast, he would have had them born with wheels on their feet!"

Once they'd retrieved their luggage, Bruguière hailed a horse-drawn cab to take them to their Paris residence. At Erik's request, and since they were planning on spending a couple of months in town, Édouard had earlier wired Barthelbe to lease a furnished apartment on the Rue de Rivoli, one within sight of the opera house.

"Can't resist the place, eh?" asked Édouard as they got into the cab, his tone teasing.

"I like the view," said Erik.

"That's what I thought."

The two of them rode the rest of the way in silence, each lost in his own thoughts, letting Aurelia do enough talking for the three of them.

-0-0-0-

The Rue de Rivoli was located in the 4th arrondissement, and was one of the most famous and most fashionable streets in all of Paris. Its history dated back to the time before Paris had become the City of Lights, but was still a rather sleepy crossroads. It was not without irony that Erik noted the plaque affixed to his door at No. 144. "The site of the murder of the Huguenot leader, Gaspard de Coligny, St. Bartholomew's Day Massacre, 1572," he read aloud, shuddering at the memory of mob justice that had touched his own life.

Aurelia was undaunted. "Father, this is brilliant!" she gushed. "We're close to everything! The Louvre, the Bibliothèque nationale, the Tuileries jardins."She gave him a quick hug before dashing inside to look out the tall windows at the view below.

Bruguière nudged the doting father who stood beside him with a perplexed look. "Don't forget the shops," he said, hinting broadly.

"Why?" asked Erik. "My daughter has everything she needs."

Édouard shook his head. "A young woman? In Paris for the first time? You must be deluding yourself, my friend. Of course she'll want to visit the shops!"

"Her mother would say I am spoiling her."

"Christine would have wanted her to have a few new dresses," Édouard chipped in, enjoying himself. "When in Paris, dress as the Parisians do." And so it was decided: Bruguière would leave them to settle in and would later meet them for lunch at one of the street cafes along the way. Then, they would see how much Paris had changed in the past two decades during Erik's absence.

The two men made their au revoirs and once Édouard was gone, Erik went about touring the apartment. He was pleased with their accommodations. The rooms were spacious, light, and airy. He and Aurelia were fortunate indeed to have found a fully furnished corner apartment with tall floor-to-ceiling windows in the French style, the likes of which his daughter had never seen. He found himself smiling as he watched her fling them open to let in the breeze, and enjoyed her obvious delight with the way the plain, white curtains billowed in the air. She twirled around, holding her arms wide open, while Erik moved his inspection to the center of the drawing room where he investigated the piano that was there. He tested the keys, nodding to himself when he found the instrument was in tune, and then sat down to play while Aurelia continued exploring their temporary home.

For Erik, Paris was a place of bittersweet memories. He feared he was not going to be much fun during their stay, but it turned out that his daughter had other plans. Her enthusiasm was contagious, and soon he was enjoying the visit every bit as much as she was.

For Aurelia, being in Paris was like coming alive after a long winter's sleep. It was wonderful, so much better than living in the country, and she began to question whether she would ever be satisfied with life in Gamla Uppsala again. She gazed longingly at the women in their beautiful dresses, and felt dowdy in her simple homespun attire.

"Father, remember that little shop we passed on our way here?"

He turned and saw her leaning out the window. "A lady does not hang out the windows and gawk at passersby on the street below," he admonished. "And which shop are you referring to? There were so many, I'm surprised you can remember a specific one."

"I'm talking about the one with the yellow dress and matching parasol in the window. Can we go there this afternoon, please? It is only a short walk from here, and that outfit would look pretty with Mother's rose-colored necklace and earrings." She fingered the choker that she always wore, the one that had belonged to Christine.

Erik remembered Bruguière's earlier comments about young ladies and shopping. "Do you really need another dress?"

"Not just a dress. I need a whole new wardrobe," she announced. She swept a hand across her skirt disdainfully, as if it were an old rag.

Erik quirked an eyebrow. "What's wrong with what you've got?"

"Nothing, if I'm milking goats. Look at those women." She nodded towards the pedestrians walking along the sidewalk underneath their window. "Compared to them, I stick out like the country bumpkin that I am. Please, Father?"

Erik had to agree. He had been away from city life for so long he had forgotten that a young lady needed to not just feel good about herself, but look good, too. His daughter deserved to dress the part. So while Édouard returned to his office to see what work had piled up during his absence, father and daughter visited several elegant _modistes_ where they purchased a completely new wardrobe for Aurelia—dresses, hats, outer wear, shoes, purses, gloves…even silken unmentionables.

When they finished buying for her, she talked her father into paying a visit to one of the better haberdashers. Happily, it didn't take much convincing. Living modestly for many years allowed them the luxury of not having to count their pennies—at least not today.

"If we keep this up," he said cheerfully, "my taste for the finer things in life will reawaken."

Aurelia smiled at him and nodded in agreement. She watched the way he gazed at his reflection in the mirror, always making sure to keep his face turned so that the masked side did not show. "You look wonderful, Father, quite dashing. I'll be the envy of all the daughters in Paris, having such a handsome father."

Erik stirred uncomfortably, but let the remark pass. "One makes the best of what one has," he said quietly.

"Monsieur has excellent taste," the tailor remarked, as he marked the suit for adjustments. "This is the finest fabric we have, and it drapes well on a man who cuts a good figure."

"Clothes make the man," she said. Erik agreed. It felt good to wear a well-made suit again, even if it was merely _prêt-à-porter_. He believed that when he dressed like a gentleman and acted like one, he was treated like one. Not even the haberdasher gave his mask a second glance during the fitting.

On their way back to the apartment, they stopped at several bookstalls. Among their purchases was a tour book. Aurelia tucked it into her reticule. "I want to make sure I have it with me when we go sightseeing."

-0-0-0-

The next few days were a whirlwind of activities, and Aurelia made sure she had her guidebook with her wherever they went. They walked the prestigious Avenue des Champs-Élysées, with its cafés and luxury shops, enjoying the shade of the clipped chestnut trees on warm spring afternoons.

"Can we have lunch at _Au Chien Qui Fume_?" she asked, reading from the book. "It says it's been around since 1740 and has foie gras and smoked salmon made in-house. Oh, and they also serve oysters and shellfish all year round."

"Have they been around since 1740?"

"Don't be silly."

After lunch, there was a trip to the Louvre, where they admired the museum's three great ladies.

"Don't you think they're beautiful?" Aurelia asked.

"Not really. They're all flawed."

"What? You think the Venus de Milo flawed?"

"She has no arms."

"And the Winged Victory?"

"No head"

"Oh…well, the Mona Lisa's not flawed."

"Yes, she is. She has bad teeth."

"No, she doesn't. She's enigmatic. She looks like she's got a secret," said Aurelia. She gazed into the distance, a sure sign that her youthful imagination was working overtime. "An unknowable, unfathomable secret. Perhaps she is in love…."

"She's no doubt laughing to herself at all the fathers being dragged to see her by their daughters," replied Erik.

Aurelia only rolled her eyes. She knew her father would never let her get in the last word.

-0-0-0-

It may have only been early June, but already spring was giving way to summer, and this particular day was very warm and breezy. Aurelia felt quite sophisticated in her new tailored costume, though more than once had to hold onto her hat to keep it from being caught by the wind. Erik had been positively scandalized by the dress's pale color and thin, clingy fabric, and had snidely remarked that it resembled lingerie, but Aurelia held fast.

"It is the latest fashion," she protested. "All the girls are wearing it."

At last, they reached their destination, and were more than a little overwhelmed by the sight before them, the iron lattice tower located on the Champ de Mars—the Eiffel Tower. When it had been originally constructed for the 1889 World's Fair, many had called it an eyesore, but Parisians quickly fell in love with it. The structure loomed over them and at first appeared to be very close by, but the farther they walked, the farther away it seemed.

Aurelia pulled out her tour book and began to read. "The tower has three levels for visitors. Tickets can be purchased to ascend either on stair or lift to the first and second levels. The walk to the first level is over 300 steps, as is the walk from the first to the second level. The third and highest level is accessible only by lift. Both the first and second levels feature restaurants." She held the book out for her father to see. "We simply _must _have an iced dessert or cold drink in one of these restaurants, while we are enjoying the view."

He nodded without saying a word, weighing the fact that Aurelia seemed to be blossoming in this environment. She was not intimated by the crowded streets, the stiff and formal manners of the people they encountered, nor the hustle and bustle that went on around them. Not in the slightest. In fact, she seemed to thrive on it. There was no doubt about it; his little girl was growing up.

-0-0-0-

Erik felt light-headed and dizzy as he stared down at the rooftops of Paris. When he had agreed to accompany his daughter to the top of the almost 300-meter tall structure, he had given no thought to the height. As the mysterious _fantôme,_ hadn't he been as much at home on the narrow catwalks as he had been below ground? The first two levels hadn't been too bad, and at each, they'd stopped for refreshments. When they took the lift to the third level, it came as quite a surprise to Erik to discover that his stomach was churning and his palms were sweaty. What had been gentle breezes at street level now howled through the metallic tower like a ferocious hurricane (or at least that's how Erik found it), and what was in fact no more than a gentle sway of the structure felt more like the shaking of an earthquake.

Aurelia felt no such discomfort, and the panoramic view thrilled her. "This is how the angels must feel," she said with a sigh. "Look, over there," she cried out excitedly, pointing out landmarks. When her father didn't reply, she turned about and noticed he was hanging back, behind her. "Are you feeling ill?"

Erik had never before suffered from vertigo, but the observation deck was proving his undoing. He tried to keep his agitation to himself, putting up a brave front, refusing to succumb to the awful height and the knot it left in his stomach, but Aurelia found him out.

"No problem. Just…a little winded. The climb up, you know. I'm…I'm not as fit as I once was. All these years of sitting behind a desk have taken a toll on me."

"Come over here, Father," his daughter said, gently talking him by the elbow and directing him to a bench away from the railing, where the two of them sat.

"I'm fine," Erik groused, ashamed at exhibiting such weakness in front of his daughter.

"You are not. You're pale as a ghost. Sometimes I think you forget that you're not as young as you think you are."

Her statement shocked Erik. Was that the problem? Was he getting…old? He never knew his actual birthdate, but knew that when he and Christine had married, he had been close to 30, if not a little older. That was almost…dear God! Did that mean he was nearing 50 years old? The half-century mark? He looked up into his daughter's smiling face, and it hit him again. He was old.

Aurelia must have read his mind, because she immediately said, "I don't mean to imply that you are _old _old…just that, you need to take it a little easier than you used to."

"No, you're right. Age is catching up with me. I've just been too stubborn to acknowledge the fact."

He rubbed his aching right knee and decided they'd take the lift down, and then catch a cab back to their apartment. Perhaps he'd even hail one of those motorized taxis that had nearly run them down on their way to the tower. He had no doubt that his daughter would enjoy every moment of the ride.

Erik kept his seat while Aurelia enjoyed the view, keeping an eye to the sky. Though it had been mostly sunny during the earlier part of the day, clouds were beginning to fill in. Off to the west, the sky was darkening ominously.

"Time to get down from here," announced Erik. "If a storm breaks loose, we will find ourselves on the world's tallest lightning rod." Though she was reluctant to leave, Aurelia gave in.

The thunderheads moved in quickly, but the storm held off long enough for them to return to terra firma and meet Édouard in the café at which they had earlier arranged to meet, a cozy little bistro with red awnings and brightly polished brass fixtures called _Au Chien Qui Fume_. The café was housed in a quaint building that was within walking distance of the tower. According to Aurelia's guidebook, it was originally built in the mid-18th century, but Erik doubted the book's veracity and reminded his daughter that much of this area had been torn down when Baron Haussmann undertook his renovations of the city. Aurelia ignored her father's correction, and beamed at her Uncle Édouard, who was waiting for them in the doorway.

"Come on in. It's going to start pouring any moment, and I've got a table already reserved for us," he said, leading the way towards a table near the back of the room.

The _maitre d'_ had recognized Erik's name immediately. It wasn't every day that a famous author and former opera ghost walked into his establishment, and he meant to make the most of it. "Monsieur Delacorte," he said with a flourish. He repeated the name a few times, ensuring that the entire restaurant knew that a person of importance had entered.

Aurelia balked. "I want to sit up here by the windows, so I can watch the storm."

They ended up agreeing upon a table in the corner, near enough to the windows so that Aurelia could watch what was going on outside, but far enough away from the other tables so that Erik was comfortable. As the winds buffeted those foolish enough to have been caught outside, their little party of three sat safe and dry, taking in the spectacle. A sudden electrical discharge struck the Eiffel Tower, brightening up the prematurely night-like sky, then another. These were followed almost immediately by an ear-shattering explosion of thunder.

Erik cocked an eyebrow at his daughter. "See what I meant?" he said, putting on his father knows best face.

The waiter took their orders efficiently and graciously, pausing only to recommend today's special and answer questions. The repast would consist of three courses, including a rare treat that Erik hadn't seen in years. Soon, it was served to them with fanfare. Wine was poured and toasts of _bon appetit_ were made, while Édouard smacked his lips appreciatively as the aroma of gourmet dishes wafted in the air.

Aurelia sat looking at the food in front of her with distrust, wrinkling her nose. At that moment, Erik thought how much she looked like her mother, remembering many times when Christine would make that same kind of face.

"Father? What are these?" she asked, pointing at the unusual looking appetizer on the plate in front of her.

"Escargots, my dear. Try them. They are delicious."

There were obviously gaps in her familiarity with the French language. Not recognizing that particular word, she examined the shells closely, touching them gingerly with her fork. "They look like ordinary snails!"

Édouard chuckled. "That is because they are. They have been carefully raised and expertly prepared. A true gourmand's delight," he continued as he spread one on toast and took a bite.

Aurelia pouted slightly. "Um...no thank you." She glanced around the room, paying more attention to what others were being served and wondering what other epicurean surprises awaited her. "I don't think I'm very hungry after all."

Erik smiled, perhaps a little patronizingly. "One learns to eat whatever is available. In Southeast Asia, for instance, people don't turn up their noses at any source of protein, even the eight-legged kind. Tarantulas, for example..."

Bruguière groaned. "Please! Now I think I've lost my appetite."

Aurelia's curiosity, however, was piqued. Her father's past was something that always fascinated her; even more so since she'd read his memoirs. "What's the strangest food you've ever eaten?"

"Again, I am reminded of Southeast Asia. There is a delicacy made from steamed, fertilized duck eggs aged precisely 14 days. It is as though the natives said, 'Eggs are good, but what would taste even better is one with feathers and a beak'. They let nothing go to waste." He looked at the faces around him. "It's quite fragrant."

Bruguière harrumphed. "I think I'd like to talk about something else—_any _thing else."

At that moment, Aurelia became uncomfortably aware of the sensation of being watched. She glanced surreptitiously around the dining room, and saw a woman staring at them. She appeared to be keenly interested in Erik in particular. "Father, do you know that woman?"

"What woman?"

"That one, over there. She keeps looking at you as if she knows you."

Erik turned and emitted a slight gasp. "It's Mme Giry, but I don't know that effete young man who's with her." He acknowledged the former ballet mistress with a slight nod of the head, and grimaced when Mme Giry rose from her table and approached them, the handsome young man accompanying her like a puppy dog.

She was dressed entirely in the latest fashionable color, mauve—a huge, hazy cloud of it surrounded her in the form of tulle and dyed feathers—and glided towards them as if on wheels. The gentlemen stood and introductions were made. Much to Erik's surprise, his daughter did not rise to meet her elder. She kept her seat as a grown woman would. With a slight sense of loss, he silently acknowledged once again that Aurelia was growing up.

The man with her was Monsieur Rabbelais, who announced plans to open a new ballet school. "I am hoping to convince Mme Giry to be my advisor," he said. His enthusiasm was achingly honest, but the manner in which he held her too closely and let his gaze linger on her too long bespoke a familiarity that is not discussed in mixed company.

"So this is Christine's daughter?" said Mme Giry, smiling indulgently.

Aurelia leaned forward, her entire attention focused on the elder woman. "I am pleased to meet you, Madam. You knew my mother. I read about you in her diary."

"Knew her?" Giry said with a delicate laugh. "I practically raised her. She was like my own daughter to me—"

Erik stifled a laugh, covering his mouth with the back of his hand when Giry glared at him defiantly. "You were very kind to us both," he said quickly, smoothing over Madam's ruffled feathers.

"Won't you sit with us?" the younger woman asked. "I'd love to talk to you."

Chairs appeared as if out of thin air. "Damned attentive staff," Bruguière muttered, as the lady took her seat.

"How did you meet my father?"

Mme Giry choked on her champagne. "I…really can't say. He was always hanging around the opera house. I believe he was keeping watch over your mother. He was infatuated with her from the start, you know. From the moment he first saw her, it was as though no other woman existed."

Aurelia smiled. "Father said she had a way about her."

"It's true," Giry said with a nod. "She was beautiful and charming, but not half as lovely as you, if I dare say it in front of your father." She stared hard at Aurelia, apprising her as though considering hiring her for the _corps de ballet_. "You have your father's grace and poise, and your mother's beauty and warmth. Tell me, my dear, who do you take after when it comes to your talent?"

"Really, Giry," Erik stammered. His skin turned dusky as his flesh colored from ire.

"I'm only asking what everyone in Paris will want to know." The room grew quiet as diners at nearby tables strained to hear. "Can she sing?"

-0-0-0-


	42. Chapter 42

_**To Be Loved**_  
**By HDKingsbury & MadLizzy**

**Chapter 42**

January 23, 2011

_Consider the trees, which allow the birds to perch and fly away without either inviting them to stay or desiring them never to depart.  
If your heart can be like this, you will be near to the way. _

~ Zen Buddhist teaching

-0-0-0-

The air was clear and fresh after the afternoon storm, but back at their quiet apartment on the Rue de Rivoli, Erik was fuming. "Can she sing?" he said, mocking Mme Giry's tone. "How dare she ask that question? Is she suggesting that my daughter perform on the stage?"

"Like her mother and her father?" Édouard replied pointedly. Aurelia stifled a chuckle at his audacity. Her father rarely worked himself into such a lather but when he did, it was usually best not to provoke him.

"Aurelia need never work," Erik pointed out, poking his finger at his daughter's godfather for emphasis. "You've helped see to that."

After all these years, Bruguière recognized when Erik was going into one of his dark moods and knew how to ward them off. He had averted a spectacle by whisking the three of them out of the restaurant the moment he saw the scowl forming on his friend's face. Erik had walked so quickly all the way back to the apartment that Bruguière and Aurelia struggled to keep up with him. Now that they were safe and sound and far from prying eyes, he quickly changed the subject from Mme Giry's audacity to Aurelia's talent. None of them had even had time to take off their overcoats and hats before Erik had begun his tirade.

"Aurelia has a splendid voice," Édouard commented casually. "It's young and immature, but you've been careful not train her too strenuously, and she enjoys singing. Perhaps the time is right to encourage her skills…without necessarily having a goal of singing in public."

The girl appeared lost in a daze. "Do you think I could sing on the stage?" she muttered to no one in particular. "Could I be good enough to perform one day?"

"That isn't the point!" he said angrily. He was filled with self-loathing when Aurelia shrank away from him, so he softened his tone. "You have a rare instrument," he added consolingly. "It isn't a question of whether you're good enough. It is the idea of your performing on stage that is repugnant to me." He held his hands in the air, at war with the emotions simmering inside him. "You have no idea what 'surprises' are in store for an innocent young girl. I won't allow it, do you hear?"

Aurelia raised an eyebrow and Bruguière winced. He had never been a father, but he knew that ultimatums never went over well with teenagers—especially not teenage girls.

"It was good enough for Mother," Aurelia stated in a cold and defiant manner. "You have purposely kept me from the opera house! You don't want me to see it – to see the place where it all began." She was becoming increasingly agitated and stared at her father with an icy glare. "Where you met her!"

Oh, this was infuriating. Erik's eyes glittered angrily as his fury rose within him. "Do you really want to see it? All right, then, we'll go!"

Bruguière stammered. "Tonight? It's too late! We'll go tomorrow instead. The place is locked up at this hour."

The response was a low and frightening sound that Bruguière hadn't heard since Erik was in jail twenty years ago. Erik was laughing in that cold and calculating way that made one's blood run cold. "A minor impediment," he said with a sneer. He took his daughter by the wrist and began to pull her towards the door, but stopped when she dug her heels into the carpet. "Come, child," he said firmly. "You want to see the opera, and learn how the people live there? Then see it we shall."

"Wait!" Édouard cried. "You can't do this!"

"Try to stop me," said the Phantom.

-0-0-0-

The door on the Rue Scribe entrance was locked tight. In fact, the door didn't appear to have been opened in ages. It was rusted shut, but Erik produced a tool from his pocket and deftly turned the lock. He picked up a candle lantern on a dusty ledge near the doorway, and searched for the matches he knew would be there. The candle threw a warm, golden glow into the darkness.

"I can't believe I've let you talk me into coming this far," Bruguière groused. He balked when it came to actually entering the opera, though. "I'm not going any farther. I'm going back to my apartment, and awaiting the night watchman's knock at my door. Don't expect me to bail you out of jail, Erik." He held his hand out for Aurelia, expecting her to come with him. He was shocked when she refused.

"You can't be serious." She shook her head resolutely and trembled with anticipation. "I wouldn't miss this for the world." She peered into the entrance with a look of great expectation.

Erik closed the door in Édouard's face without so much as a by-your-leave. Down, down into the cellars he led his daughter, warning her from time to time to watch her step or mind her head. It had been years since he had walked this path, but there are some things a man never forgets. At the bottom of the stairs, a black, glassy lake shimmered in the lantern light.

"This is the lake Mother wrote about in her journal," Aurelia said softly and for a moment, she imagined how her mother must have felt when she saw it for the first time. She was perfectly at ease in this dank, forbidding place. "It's more beautiful than I ever imagined. Can we see your home, the one on the other side?"

Seeing the lake again had a profound effect upon Erik. Perhaps it was the memory of the times he had steered the ornately carved gondola through the mist that always hovered over the water, carrying Christine to his home; whatever the reason, he was transformed. Gone were the anger and the bitterness, replaced by a playful (and most welcome) curiosity. "There's no way to get there, not from this side of the shore. The boat I once used is not here. I suspect it has long rotted away, its scraps no doubt resting at the bottom of the lake." Her father weighed the options and shook his head. "It doesn't matter, I suppose. There's nothing to see. My 'house' was destroyed years ago, before your mother and I left for Sweden." He offered a suggestion. "However, there is another part of the building I can show you. We'll go see the dormitories and the stage instead, and then, to a secret spot where we may enjoy the best view in Paris. It will put the scenery from that ghastly tower to shame."

Onward and upward into the heart of the opera house they walked, climbing through the cellars and emerging in hidden passageways that allowed them access to the most remote corners of the building. They eavesdropped on private conversations among the chorus girls and watched the peaceful slumber of the ballet rats. On, on, they walked with absolute aplomb, exploring the opulent riches of the opera.

From grandiose paintings and intricately gilded architectural features, to marble columns and floors of the highest quality; from rich red velvet draperies to magnificent floral arrangements in silver epergnes; from the kitchens where tomorrow's bread was already rising for the breakfast of a thousand employees, Aurelia drank it all in. She was especially moved by the dressing room where her mother had first heard her father calling to her. He even dared to show how he stood behind the mirror during that time before he had the courage to ask the woman he loved to step into his world.

It was spellbinding, this journey behind the scenes. She saw the spartan dormitories that housed the performers, and compared them to the posh suites provided to the glittering divas. Walking along the bare wooden planks that served as flooring, she dared to postulate aloud. "I feel as though I belong here."

Erik was puzzled by this remark, but found himself distracted by a slight noise. It wasn't much of a noise, but more like a heavy sigh, and he carefully steered his child away from a hidden place that might in fact be a rendezvous for trysting lovers.

On and on, they pushed, not stopping until they came to a rehearsal studio where a solitary student practiced her voice lessons late in the night, when everyone else was sleeping. It was the "Jewel Song," Marguerite's most famous aria from _Faust_, and the young soprano was having difficulty hitting the high notes. Erik grimaced and turned to find his daughter, much to his surprise, immersed in the song.

"It's beautiful," she whispered, closing her eyes as the music filled her soul.

Erik squeezed her hand, pulling her further along the passageway. "Don't be fooled by appearances. An artist's life isn't always sublime. It is a way of living that encompasses the best and the worst that the world has to offer." He hesitated before adding, "Remember, your mother grew up much as I did—in traveling fairs, with a haystack for a bed and whatever we could scrounge to fill our bellies. She knew enough about survival to navigate without running into shoals."

She sighed wistfully. "It sounds…so romantic."

"There was nothing romantic about it. It was survival." He growled a little, under his breath. "Your mother was lucky to be taken under Mme Giry's wing when she first arrived from the conservatory."

"I know you want to protect me, to keep me safe always," she told him. She chuckled softly. "At times, I feel as though I am locked away in an ivory tower, like one of those heroines in Mother's fairy tale books."

"The world holds many sorrows." At that moment, he looked as though he had experienced them all.

"And many wonders," she said, picking up her pace to keep up with him. "You've taught me to use good judgment. Don't you trust me, Father?"

He made an exasperated sound. "It isn't that I don't trust you. It's that I…I've seen the world, Aurelia. All my life, I wanted a place to call home. One where I didn't have to hide in the shadows." Up and up he continued leading her, and when they could climb no more, he opened a trapdoor in the ceiling and pulled himself through it. He reached down and lifted her through the opening, up onto the rooftop of the opera house.

The wind whipped around her, picking up her skirt and causing it to billow in the air. "Oh!" she cried, as she took in the sights of the magnificent statuary. Without a word, her father pulled himself up to the highest point—atop Apollo's lyre—and looked out upon the rooftops of Paris from his vantage point. He was formidable, and yet, his presence reassured her.

"You look like a guardian angel," she said to him, but her words were lost in the wind. "An angel of music." Suddenly, she understood her father very well. His twisted face was merely superficial evidence of the damage that had been done to him in the past. Returning to Paris had reopened some of the wounds that hurt him the most. She took the hand he offered her, and let him lift her to rest in the arms of Apollo, god of music. She gripped him tightly and said, "I won't leave you, Father. Not ever."

Erik stared at her, filled with love…and yet, also with shame. Could he ask this of her, that she sacrifice her freedom and her future to keep him company at their little sanctuary in the pastoral countryside of a far away land? He patted her arm and nodded, while a knot formed in his throat. "Come," he said, his voice strained and rasping. "It will be daylight soon. Édouard will be missing us."

"Please…a moment longer," she asked longingly. "The sun is beginning to rise. Look at the way the rooftops are glowing in the dawning light."

He gazed at her, his daughter. She was almost a grown woman, and some day he would have to let her go. He had given her wings, and now he must find the strength to let her fly. Today, though, she was still his little girl, and safe by his side.

-0-0-0-

A few days later, the trio was once again enjoying dinner at their favorite restaurant, the little bistro near the Eiffel Tower. If the weather was good, they would take a table outside, and when not so good, would sit in the corner window seat. During their six-week stay, Erik and Aurelia had become not only habitués, but favorites of the place. When the maître'd, a lean, lanky man named Armand, realized that the man in the half-mask was none other than Monsieur Delacorte, the famous author of the Opera Ghost memoirs, he made sure that anything Monsieur Delacorte wanted, Monsieur Delacorte got. It also didn't hurt that Monsieur Delacorte's daughter was as charming an ingénue as any the wait staff had ever met. Since today's weather was balmy, the three of them were enjoying their evening repast outside.

"I went to see the jeweler yesterday," said Édouard, quite casually.

Erik frowned, puzzled. "What jeweler?"

"Have you forgotten already? Back in Sweden, you were bound and determined to get that ring back. Now that we are here in Paris, you have completely ignored the matter. In three days, you and Aurelia will be returning to Gamla Uppsala, and if you don't do something now, you'll never see that damned ring."

Aurelia chimed in. "Yes, Father. What about that ring?"

"You know I despise making a public appearance," said Erik. Clearly, he hadn't forgotten about the ring. He had instead been avoiding the subject. "It's like being on display. All people to do is gawk and stare and point…and whisper."

Bruguière brushed aside his friend's misgivings. "Nonsense! The public adores you. If you allowed them, they would come to worship at your feet. You, _Monsieur le Fantôme_, are the darling of Paris! After all this time, your memoirs are still best sellers!"

"It's not as if you would be there alone, Father," Aurelia added with a smirk. "Uncle Édouard and I will be there to protect you. Besides, I would love to see this ring."

A hush fell over the trio while Erik's temper simmered. Finally, he gritted his teeth and announced, "I have no intention of allowing you to be present at this…this spectacle. My daughter," he said firmly, "will not be on display."

Aurelia smiled demurely, but it was clear that she was thinking of ways to convince her father to let her attend. "Why not?" she asked hesitantly. "Are you ashamed of me?"

"Ashamed of you!" he sputtered. "Of course not!" He massaged his throbbing temple with the heel of his hand and threw his napkin onto the table with a dramatic gesture of defeat. "Oh, all right. You can come, but I want you to remain incognito. There is no purpose to be served by calling attention to yourself."

The girl's cheeks flushed as her own temper flared. "I could hide in the shadows, if that would make you happy. Perhaps there is a hidden passageway where you could stash me. Or a two-way mirror behind which I could lurk, unseen."

Édouard, ever the mediator, cleared his throat. "She is my godchild. That is all we need say, should any questions arise. No one but Giry knows you have a daughter, and she has kept all your secrets," he added pointedly.

Thus, with much effort and relentless persuasion from the only two people Erik trusted completely, Aurelia got her way. "Something tells me I'm going to regret this," he grumbled, but his daughter was ecstatic, and all of his worries faded away.

Though the matter of whether Aurelia would accompany them had been solved, Édouard still had his own misgivings as to how all this was going to play out. His clerk, Barthelbe, had warned that the jeweler, Monsieur Lefèvre, was interested in getting more than a little free publicity. The jeweler had hinted that a handsome reward would not be out of order.

When this was presented to Erik, he had agreed to pay for the gemstones that he had abandoned so many years ago (stones that Lefèvre could easily have sold, but had used to attract customers) but balked at paying what he referred to as a ransom for the return of Christine's ring. It was his attorney's duty to protect his interests, he had reminded Bruguière, a task that the attorney took very seriously.

Early the next morning, they found themselves standing in the center of the small shop surrounded by curiosity seekers, while Bruguière smiled his most beguiling smile. Lefèvre had been most obstinate that his 'guest' should come during the middle of the day when many customers would be around. The attorney countered that his client's schedule would not allow for it. When that didn't work, some veiled references to the possibilities of bad publicity should the property not be promptly returned to its rightful owner had at last made Lefèvre realize that if he wanted the famous Monsieur Delacorte at his establishment, then it was going to have to be at Delacorte's convenience.

Erik had responded that he would arrive precisely at the ungodly hour of eight o'clock in the morning, certain that it was too late for gentlemen to attend (even if they stayed out all night) and too early for decent women to be out and about. Even with the short notice, the shop was well attended. Word of mouth was almost as efficient a form of advertisement as a notice placed in the local press, and a couple of editors got wind of what was to take place (no doubt due to Lefèvre calling in favors from some well-placed friends) and they in turn sent their society reporters to cover the affair.

For this outing, Erik had selected his best suit, and Aurelia wore her prettiest frock. When she noticed her father fidgeting, she whispered into his ear, "Don't worry. I have you covered."

"I would prefer that you stayed back, away from the crowd," he replied, keeping his voice low so that only she heard him.

She stifled a giggle and slunk back into a corner. The sound of her laughter broke what tension there had remained between the two of them, and Erik found himself able to relax—at least a little. With a slight nod, he signaled to Bruguière that it was time to begin.

The attorney stepped forward, putting on his best courtroom face. He suspected that Lefèvre might still be planning some kind of shenanigans, and decided to circumvent them by playing to the crowd. Thus began the cross-examination of the jeweler. Oh, it would be politely done, but it would be cross-examination nonetheless.

Smiling deceptively, Bruguière greeted the jeweler. "So, Monsieur Lefèvre, how did you say you come by this ring?"

Lefèvre nervously cleared his throat as he saw the reporters taking notes. He wasn't sure what the attorney's game was, and he was in no mood to be played the fool. "It was returned to me by Monsieur Vernet. He was working in the muck, cleaning the bottom of the pond, when he found the box." He nodded toward a little man standing off to the side.

Bruguière shrugged and stroked his beard. "Hmm. An honest man is a rarity these days." The crowd nodded, agreeing. "I trust you bestowed upon him a suitable reward?"

The jeweler looked uncomfortably at the sea of eyes staring at him, their eager faces awaiting his answer. "I thanked him profusely," he mumbled. All around him, eyebrows raised.

"You _thanked_ him? And so, this beautiful ring was returned to you…at no charge. How did the workman know to return it here, to this shop?"

Fine beads of sweat broke out on Lefèvre's brow. "It's clearly my ring. It has my stamp on it! You can see it here."

"Ah, but yet you say it originally belonged to my client."

"Why…why yes. He paid for it. It's right here, in this old ledger book…" That's when Lefèvre knew that whatever reward he had been scheming for had just flown out the window.

Bruguière nodded at the crowd. "Oh, so you merely wished to return it safely to him, into his own hands. How kind of you." He smiled beatifically.

Lefèvre knew the game was up, and did the next best thing. He returned the ring with an exaggerated flourish. "Monsieur Delacorte, it is my pleasure to return to you the ring you designed nearly two decades ago."

One of the reporters had brought along a photographer who was using one of the new box cameras. "Smile, gentlemen," he said, motioning towards Erik to step in closer to Lefèvre. Reluctantly, Erik did so, standing so that the good side of his face was exposed to the lens. "How about the young lady?"

"No!" Erik snapped, noticing that Aurelia had stepped closer. "Stand back," he ordered her.

The photographer grinned. "There is no need for that. There's nothing to be afraid of!"

"Nothing to be afraid of! You ninny! Do you think I don't know that magnesium powder is burned when photographs are made? I'm well aware of the dangers of combustibles!"

"Monsieur," said the photographer, "it is entirely safe, I assure you. This is the latest invention—single-flash photographic bulbs. The glass bulb contains the entire charge. The bulb gets hot, assuredly, but nothing will happen."

Erik wasn't about to give in, and wasn't mollified by the man's patronizing tone. "What if the bulb explodes? What then?" He turned to his daughter and saw her scowling with impatience. "Indulge me," he said to her under his breath, pleading silently for her understanding. Much to his relief, she stepped aside and he signaled the photographer to continue. "Get it over with," he snarled.

"And they wonder why people look grim in portraiture," the photographer complained.

That taken care of, Lefèvre proceeded with the official transfer of ownership and at the conclusion, tried to shake Erik's hand, but Erik was holding the small box and paid the man no heed.

Bruguière came over and tapped Erik on the arm. "Come. We have other business to discuss, now that you've had your moment in the spotlight."

"Wait. I wanted to thank that workman for returning the ring to me."

Bruguière nodded to a meek, stoop shouldered man standing off in the corner. "Monsieur Vernet? A moment if you please."

"Oui, Monsieur?" the little man asked in a squeaky voice.

Erik gave a reassuring smile. "You might have sold it to the highest bidder. Thank you for giving it back to me." He held out his hand and the workmen pumped it eagerly, unaware that Erik had slipped an envelope into his coat pocket.

When he stepped away, Vernet stuck his hand in his pocket and felt something there. Quietly, he pulled out the envelope. When he realized what it was, he flashed a nervous but grateful smile at his benefactor. He couldn't wait to get home and tell his wife about his brush with fame, for she had wanted to keep the ring and sell it. In truth, they needed the money. Poverty was never more than an illness or an accident away. The amount Monsieur Delacorte had given them surpassed any price they could have gotten for the ring from the pawnshops along the backstreets of Paris.

Erik glanced around, attempting to get Aurelia's attention and signal that he was ready to leave, but Lefèvre continued hanging around. It was, after all, his shop. "It was meant for your wife, I believe," said the unctuous man. "How did you lose it, if I may be so bold as to inquire?"

Memories of that day came back.

_I was such an ass, Christine. Thank God, one of us used our brains that day. _

"My... Christine …I mean, Mademoiselle Daaé and I...we often went to the swan lake for picnics. I must have dropped it. I…um…I lost it before I could offer it to her. Afterwards, I could never bring myself to tell her...to tell her what a fool I was."

Lefèvre tutted. "So careless, with such a precious stone?" He laughed nervously, relieved when those around him joined in his laughter.

Erik studied the box, and opened it. The ring had been cleaned, and its emerald stone glinted back at him, reminding him of how Christine's eyes used to sparkle. "I've learned to be more careful," he said quietly. "One never knows when one will lose that which is precious to him."

Bruguière cleared his throat. "Monsieur Delacorte has another appointment soon. If we are quite finished with this matter, he would like to see the other items that you have been keeping for him, the remaining gems that were recovered when the emerald was faceted."

"They are in the main showcase." Lefèvre gestured towards a hand-lettered sign, yellow with age, that read, _The Phantom's Treasure_.

Erik cocked an eyebrow and Bruguière said, "We'll discuss this after the place is empty and the doors are locked," which was the clue to usher out the crowd so the rest of the transaction could be handled without an audience.

-0-0-0-

Late that night, the city was still and quiet. Alone, Erik sat in the drawing room in near total darkness. Tomorrow, they would depart bustling, noisy Paris and return to peaceful, quiet Gamla Uppsala. After six weeks away, he was looking forward to going home. He held the emerald ring between his thumb and forefinger and caught the moonlight with it, watching the gem glimmer with casual interest.

Something caught his attention. Another time, he might have taken it for a mere disturbance in the air. Tonight, though, he watched the darkened doorway out of the corner of his eye, and waited for Aurelia to enter.

As if on cue, she shuffled into the room, rubbing her sleepy eyes and yawning, and sat next to him on the chintz-covered divan. After a moment, he set his brandy snifter down on the table and put an arm around her daughter, drawing her close. He held out the ring for her.

She looked at it before taking it in the palm of her hand. "This was meant for Mother, wasn't it?"

"I missed my chance to give it to her." He shook his head. "It's yours now," he said, holding her tight. "She never even saw it, you know. Never even knew about it, for that matter. It's been sitting at the bottom of the lake all these years."

"Can we go there tomorrow, on our way to the station? I'd like to see the lake. Mother wrote about it in her diary. She said she spent some of the happiest moments of her life there, with you."

He smiled weakly. "It won't be the same. They've put a fountain in the middle of the water. No doubt, they've cut down all the trees."

"The black locust trees, am I right? Or were they acacias? Whatever they were." She craned her neck so she could see his face in the dim light, and saw puzzlement there. "Mother wrote of them, too." She paused a moment and wrinkled her nose—a sign that she was uncomfortable. Perhaps she had something to confess. "You may not be aware of this, but when I was a child, I found the seeds you kept in your top drawer. They were in an envelope tucked underneath your socks. I didn't realize what they were until I read Mother's diary."

"You were snooping around in my sock drawer?" he asked with feigned surprise. "You know all my secrets, then."

"I wasn't snooping," she protested demurely. "Well...not really. I was helping Fru Nystrom with the housekeeping."

"I see," he said, and sipped his brandy. He watched as she tried the ring on all her fingers, finally settling on the smallest finger of her left hand.

"Mother had small hands," she observed. "Mine are huge! They're almost as large as yours are. May I wear it to dinner tonight?"

He pursed his lips. "You are old enough to wear such jewelry?"

"I believe it is appropriate after the sun sets, at dressy affairs." She nodded her head vigorously in affirmation, and clenched her fingers. The ring was hers; there was no taking it back.

"There is more to it, you know. I'm having a parure made. A necklace. Some earrings. A bracelet. I had thought to keep them for you until your wedding day."

She snorted in a most unladylike manner. "My wedding day?"

"Don't think I haven't noticed all those young men turning their heads to look at you when you pass by." The memory of those young turks made him scowl.

"Don't be silly. You're the only man in my life." She hugged him and giggled when he kissed the side of her head.

"Aurelia," he said in a very fatherly way, "it's obvious that you've enjoyed being in Paris. If you want to stay...I'd consider it."

This was most unexpected. "You'd allow me to stay?" Her voice trembled a little.

"If you wanted to attend school here, I would understand."

She was intrigued. "Would we live here?"

"My place is...elsewhere." His thoughts were a thousand miles away, at the hidden pond where he felt close to Christine. "You'd have Édouard, and I would visit you during holidays. It's not that far, not when one considers the speed of modern transportation."

It was her turn to frown. "Wouldn't you be lonely? What would you do without me?"

"The point is, you deserve to live your own life. You know every nook and cranny of Gamla Uppsala, and you know what it has to offer you. There is a whole world here for you to explore. Paris has everything you could want, and if not Paris, some other place. Vienna, for example, or Rome."

"I would like to see them...with you." She yawned and pulled her feet up underneath her long legs and snuggled closer to her father.

"Well," he said, chuckling, "we needn't make plans tonight. We can discuss a Grand Tour tomorrow, at breakfast. Run along now. You need your rest. Tomorrow will be busy."

"All right." Her failure to protest was indicative of how tired she must have been. She shuffled towards her room, but stopped at the doorway and half-turned towards Erik. "Have I mentioned lately that I love you?"

"Every day," he said, smiling. "I love you, too."

One last yawn, and she stumbled away, muttering, "G'night."

"Sweet dreams, my darling girl."

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small envelope he had tucked away. He opened the flap, and poured out several small, brown seeds. They were the acacia seeds that he had never planted, the ones he had taken from the trees that grew over the swan lake. He remembered the day he picked up the seedpods, that day so long ago when Christine was by his side. Now, the seeds were a reminder of the promise of life unfulfilled. Had he planted them, they'd be mature and flowering. Perhaps Aurelia would have enjoyed having her own tea parties and teddy bear picnics beneath them, at their home in Gamla Uppsala.

The irony of it was not wasted on him. The seeds represented lost opportunity. Once again, his inability to let go of the past had stifled growth. It was a pattern of behavior that had not served him well. He dropped the seeds onto the side table, and resolved to everything in his power to ensure that Aurelia would thrive and grow to her fullest potential.

Even if that meant letting her go.

-0-0-0-

"I'm going to miss you," Édouard said, blinking rapidly to dispel the tears that made his eyes shine brightly in the afternoon sun. He kissed Aurelia's hand, and then her cheek, and hugged her before turning to his old friend. "Don't get your hopes up. I'm not planning to kiss you, too."

Erik waved a hand in acknowledgement. He stood a few feet away, scowling at the mass of humanity gathered on the train platform. At this time of day, it was expected that the station would be crowded, and he had never liked crowds. "Why won't they open the doors? The train should be ready for boarding by this time." He glanced at his pocket watch, worn on the same heavy gold chain that Bruguière had loaned him so many years ago so that he would look like a gentleman when he went to trial. "It belonged to my grandfather," Édouard had explained. "He was something of a rapscallion himself in his youth. He'd be pleased, knowing that you have it." The memory of this gesture of respect and genuine affection made Erik's discomfort more palatable, and he actually forced himself to smile. "Well, no use complaining. Soon enough, we'll be aching to stretch our legs and set foot on solid ground."

"I must admit, I have been homesick," Aurelia confessed. "Imagine, the goat kids are half grown by now, and the pond will be warm enough for a swim. It will be Midsummer by the time we get home."

Erik gazed on a point far away, one that only he could see in the back of his mind. He said nothing, but nodded agreeably.

"Don't forget that you have promised to visit me," Édouard reminded them. "I'm expecting you for the opera season and New Year's. You really must plan to attend at least one of the many parties to which you'll be invited." He noticed Erik's frown and shook one of his stubby fingers at him. "Aurelia needs a chance to show off some of those new gowns you got for her, not to mention a proper introduction into society."

"Society be damned," Erik mumbled, rolling his eyes. "What need has my daughter of the society of empty-headed prattlers, lecherous old men, and scheming women?"

It was Bruguière's turn to frown. "If she's to attend conservatory, as the three of us discussed only a few hours ago at breakfast, then she will need to know how to conduct herself in public. However distasteful it may seem to you, it is essential that she have some exposure to necessary evils, and by that, I am referring to the very people who support the arts with their patronage. Your name—and her mother's—will carry her only so far. It is Aurelia's talent and her charm which will gain her a following."

Aurelia had been quiet until now, but she tipped her chin up defiantly and wrinkled her nose at Erik. "Don't I have a say in this? I think I would enjoy attending a gala of some sort." Since she was well aware of the facts revealed in her mother's diary, she was careful to avoid using the term "fancy dress" or "masquerade," but she made her point. "It isn't as though I'll be thrown to the wolves. Uncle Eddy will be with me, to guard me and to guide me. Or perhaps you would accompany me, Father?" she added as sweetly as possible.

Erik's resolve began to crumble. He could deny her nothing, especially when she was being reasonable. During these past six weeks, he had begun to see her as a strong and confident young woman with a will of her own. Gone was the darling girl who wanted his approval above all else. She would not seek his permission or his approbation for very many more years. "I will take it under advisement," he said, with a wink towards his lawyer.

"Then it is settled," Édouard said, clapping his hands together. This was turning out much better than he had imagined.

The shrill whistle of the train drowned out Erik's spicy retort, but Édouard had a good idea what his grouchy old companion was saying. Quick handshakes between them men and a final hug between godfather and godchild, and soon, Erik and Aurelia were en route back home to Gamla Uppsala.

The train lurched along the tracks at an impressive rate of speed, and soon the city was far behind them. Endless acres of farmland stretched in every direction for miles around, and as the geography became flatter, there was little in the view to hold their interest. They shared the latest issue of the Paris morning paper, with Aurelia squealing in delight when she came across the picture of her father taken at the jewelry shop a few days ago. Erik groaned and closed his eyes as if the recollection pained him, but Aurelia carefully tucked the page away in her valise as a memento. It was the only photograph she had of her father, and she meant to keep it safe.

As predicted, after long hours of confinement on the train, Aurelia and her father grew restless and began to wander in the corridors. They located the observation car and the dining car, made note of the smoking compartment for which they had no use. They were about to order tea, but Erik noticed several women whispering behind gloved hands and nodding at him as if they were sharing a secret. "They've seen the paper," he whispered, and took Aurelia by the elbow and steered her into the corridor. "I'm going back to my compartment," he said. "Stay if you wish, but I will not be stared at by a bunch of curious hags."

"They looked very nice to me," Aurelia said, "and I don't want to go back to my compartment. I'll stay here, if you don't mind."

Erik growled. "Just…just don't engage any of them in conversation. Remember that anything you say to them will be sold to the newspapers. They are not your friends."

"Neither are they my enemies." Rather than admonish him, she used the best weapon in her arsenal. "Besides, if I cannot conduct myself properly in this environment, how can I hope to get along at school?"

She saw his jaw go slack, and turned on her heel and went once more into the breach. Thus it was that Aurelia began to loosen the apron strings that Erik kept so tightly knotted.

Later that evening, she made note of the momentous occasion in her diary: _June 18, 1901. Father went back to his sleeping compartment and left me alone to face half a dozen harridans who had seen his picture in the paper. They asked a thousand questions about Father but told me very little in return. To all my questions, they merely shook their heads and said, 'Oh, dear, you must ask Him to tell you.' I shall consult Mother's diary in search of clues._

In mere days, they had come to the ferry that would take them across the sea to Sweden. The closer they came to home, the more restless Erik grew. It was as if he knew that something…or someone…important was waiting there for him. "After this, we have one short train ride to Uppsala, where Oskar will meet us with the cart."

"I've missed Anna," Aurelia said brightly. "She's probably been cooking up a storm, in anticipation of our arrival. After all that heavy French and German food, I'm looking forward to a good home-cooked meal. Something simple—something with lingonberries!"

Erik shuddered at the thought of it. All these years living amongst the Swedes hadn't made it any easier for him to accept some of their cuisine.

The journey was uneventful, but characterized by a longing to return home and to all that was familiar.

Travel broadens the mind, it is said, but Home nurtures the soul. Aurelia jumped up and down when she saw Oskar waving frantically to them from the train station's platform, and then remembered that she was far too dignified to behave in such a childish manner—until, that is, she saw her father waving back with surprising enthusiasm. If her father's carefully maintained respectability could give way to such antics, then so could hers.

She hurried over to Oskar, but the closer she came to him, the more she realized that she hardly recognized him. He was much, much older than she remembered! How could he have aged so much in such a short time? Was it possible? Perhaps it was the daylight. After all, there is no brighter light in the world than in Sweden near the summer solstice. "Where's Anna?" she asked eagerly.

"My wife stayed home to finish cooking for you. She was worried that after all this time away, Herr Erik would have turned into a skeleton. She remembers how thin he was before she started cooking for him."

"Not lutefisk, I hope," Erik said with a wry grin. It had become a joke among them. Erik never tired of teasing Anna about the aroma of that particular dish, and Oskar was quick to join in. "I may be Swedish," he had said, "but I'm not stupid." Obviously, lutefisk was not one of his favorites.

Erik looked over Oskar's shoulder. "Where's the cart?" he asked.

"Father can hardly wait to get home," Aurelia explained as they wended their way through the crowd to the street.

The men put the luggage into the back, while Aurelia pulled out the steps and climbed into the back seat.

There, waiting for her, was a picnic basket with a flask of goat's milk and a dozen shortbread cookies wrapped in a linen napkin. The center of each cookie had a dollop of lingonberry jam inside a heart-shaped center. "Mmmm," the young woman said, savoring the aroma of her favorite treat. "This is ever so much better than the dishes they serve in France. Oskar," she said, brushing away crumbs from her mouth, "did you know that they eat snails in France?" She was positively chipper when speaking about it, as if discussing the splendid weather.

Oskar pulled a sour face at the thought of eating snails. "Did you eat them?"

"Of course not!" She thought a moment before adding, "But when we go back, I might like to try them. In fact, I am sure of it."

Erik raised an eyebrow. "My daughter is considering returning for school," he explained, "but until we have made up our minds, we have agreed to make a few more visits to her godfather. Perhaps we will spend the winter in Paris. You and Anna could move into the house while we are away."

"We are not as young as we used to be, Anna and me," said Oskar as he took hold of the reins. "That young man you hired before you went away, Thor. He has been doing most of the real work. He is very strong, you know. Like an ox. Not so much on brains, but his brawn makes up for what he's lacking upstairs. He's a good hand around the farm."

"I should hope so," Erik responded. "That's why I hired him. You should have been training him to take over some of the more strenuous jobs." He noticed, not for the first time, that Oskar's hands were gnarled with age and that his eyes were not as bright as they once were. "You and Anna will always have a place with us. I trust that you know that."

"Yes," Aurelia said in earnest. "You're our family. Besides, when I go away to school, Father will need someone to look after him—someone who makes sure he eats his lutefisk."

Hearing that, Oskar changed the conversation, asking questions about the sights they had seen while on their long journey. He was particularly interested in hearing about the Eiffel Tower. Such an enormous edifice was simply beyond his imagination. Soon, they were pulling up to the familiar homestead, and Anna, hearing them coming, ran out the front door while wiping her hands on her apron.

"Oh, thank goodness! I thought you'd never get here," she said as she wrapped her arms around the young woman she had helped raise since birth. She brushed back a few loose strands of auburn hair that had escaped the careful bun Aurelia had coiffed at the nape of her neck and examined her for any signs of damage. "You look different," she said excitedly. "All grown up! Where is our little girl who played in the garden and put snails in her pockets for me to find on wash day, hmm?"

The three exchanged glances and began to snicker, finally breaking out into peals of laughter. "What did I say?" Anna asked cluelessly. "What is so funny about snails?"

Aurelia put a hand to her stomach and tried to catch her breath. "I'll tell you all about it later," she gasped. "But first, I want to take off these boots and get into some comfortable clothes. Oh, to be in a simple chemise and apron again, with my hair in braids! And after I've unpacked, I want to go for a swim. How are the kid goats? They must be halfway grown by now."

The women huddled together, talking excitedly, while Thor unloaded the wagon. Oskar went inside to get a cup of tea, and none of them noticed when Erik slipped away to the special place he had been longing to see.

-0-0-0-


	43. Chapter 43

**To Be Loved**  
**Chapter 43**

**January 30, 2011**

_For rarely are sons similar to their fathers: most are worse, and a few are better than their fathers._

~Homer, The Odyssey

-0-0-0-

Only a week had passed since their return from Paris, and already Erik was feeling as if the trip had taken place in the distant past. Yes, was good to be home again, to sleep in his own bed, to work at his own desk. Away from the fast pace of the city, he easily slipped back into the less hectic country lifestyle. One of the first things he did when he got home was to visit Christine's grave, wanting to rid himself of the feeling of guilt that had come over him with being away from her for so long.

Later that evening, he set to work on the latest volume of his so-called memoires. He wasn't sure how much longer he wanted to continue with this. With a new book every other year, he now had ten volumes published and wasn't sure how many more fantastic adventures he could come up with. Perhaps this would be it—the final installment—and he could spend the rest of his life living off the royalties that were providing him with not just a comfortable lifestyle, but a handsome savings, too.

It was oddly comforting to have earned his living honestly, and to have proven himself capable of providing for Aurelia in a manner that made her proud of him. He often reminded himself of this whenever he longed for the excitement of his old, nefarious ways—ways that had nearly gotten him killed. Occasionally, he used his imagination to conjure up the reckless adventure that was lacking in this quiet, pastoral setting, but he had found fatherhood to be the most challenging foray he had ever undertaken. It was far more difficult than winning Christine had been.

He was surprised at how well his daughter had turned out, and chalked up her temperament and gentle nature to her maternal heritage. Aurelia was relentlessly cheerful, like her mother, and oblivious to her father's quirks and moods. She possessed his curiosity and his ironclad constitution, and yet, she was drawn to the same dark tales that had captivated Christine. He knew that fledgling talent that lay nascent within her would soon burst forth like a nidifugous bird, and soar to greater heights than even Christine could have attained had she lived.

Just as Erik returned to working in his study, Aurelia quickly reverted to country life as well, seeking out her young friends and sharing with them her exploits. It wasn't every day that someone from sleepy little Gamla Uppsala embarked upon such a grand adventure, and the young folks of the village wanted to know all about life in the great cosmopolitan city. Aurelia delighted in telling them about all that she had seen, but lest they think she was putting on airs, she was careful to remind them that Gamla Uppsala was the finest place in the world in which to live. She was, like her mother, happy in the quiet hamlet, and thrived on the simplicity of country life. Erik chuckled to himself whenever he heard her speaking to her friends about her journey.

Very soon, the two of them, father and daughter, would need to talk about her future, but not today, not now. Instead, he rose from his desk and strode over to the window in his study, looking out at the merry making that was taking place outside. It happened that they had made it home in time for the annual Midsummer's Eve festivities. Aurelia had already donned her most colorful skirt and vest, and had gone out and joined her girl friends, no doubt to pick more dream bouquets. She invited her father to join in the celebrations, but he declined to join as he had in other years.

He used the excuse of being behind in his writing, which wasn't too far from the truth. Better to let his daughter have some breathing room, he thought, away from his fatherly gaze, knowing how the young lads often mistook his look of concern for a scowl of disapproval. Or maybe it was disapproval, because more than once, he found himself questioning a young man's intentions when it came to his daughter. Oh well, best to put such thoughts aside for now. Instead, he allowed himself a smile as he saw a group of young girls surrounding Aurelia. Their faces were enrapt with excitement as his daughter gesticulated wildly as she described something, perhaps the storm and the lightning striking the Eiffel Tower. She was every bit as vivacious as her mother had been, and like Christine, she enjoyed drawing a crowd and keeping everyone around her amused with her story-telling.

He looked off towards the horizon. It was evening, but the sun would not set tonight. Reaching into his pocket, he knew that he had something to do. Setting aside his pen and paper, he left the study and headed downstairs. The house was already abandoned; not only had Aurelia gone out, but the Nystroms as well. Thor was long gone, having finished his chores early so that he could make the most of the celebration. Everyone was taking part in the festival. Everyone except Erik. With all the laughing and dancing going on, nobody noticed him as he walked behind the buildings, keeping out of sight. The last thing he wanted was to talk to anyone.

Without even thinking about the path he was taking, he soon found himself at Christine's grave. He eased himself down onto the faded wooden bench he'd made years ago, so that when he visited Christine, the two of them could sit together. He knew he was being foolish. Christine didn't really come and visit with him, but if it made him feel better to think that she did, whom was it hurting? After all this time, he still came here to talk, particularly when he as troubled…and tonight he was just that. Aurelia would be leaving for Paris in the fall for a visit with her Uncle Édouard prior to beginning her studies at the Royal Swedish Academy of Music, the renowned conservatory in Uppsala, and she had been begging her father to accompany her. One last trip to France, she'd pleaded, before school starts. Erik was torn; part of him would love to return to Paris, at least for a while, yet the other part wanted to stay here, at the place that he and Christine made their home.

As he sat on the bench, the music from the celebration wafted softly on the breeze. Traveling over the swales, the music was distilled and sounded almost unearthly. He closed his eyes and conjured up images of _that_ night, that special night when he had succumbed to the magic and beauty of land, when he and Christine had made love. Unbidden, his body responded to the carnal memories, harkening to the recollection of passion. He could almost feel his wife's arms around him, his knees digging into the moss-covered ground beneath their entwined bodies. He shook his head to clear his thoughts.

"I am getting old," he mumbled, rubbing his knee, which had started aching.

"You're not that old." His eyes shot open and he saw…her. He grinned. She was as youthful and radiant as when she was alive. "May I join you? You look as though you need a friend to talk to."

"I need you, Christine. God knows how much I miss you. And before you say anything – yes, I know you're always with me, but…it's not the same."

"I understand, but you mustn't wish your life away. You still have so much to live for—our daughter, and our grandchildren…"

"What? Aurelia's not even married!" he sputtered, taken off guard by her remark.

"But she will be, one day."

He heaved a heavy sigh. "I don't even want to think about it."

Christine chuckled. "It will be here sooner than you think."

"You…you can see the future?"

"No, only a mother's instinct." She noticed he was gripping something in his right hand. "What have you got there?"

He unclenched his fist to show her. "These? They're the seeds from the acacia trees we used to sit under at the Bois. Do you remember?"

Her eyes lit up. "How could I forget? But what are you doing with them now? Oh wait…you brought them here to plant?"

"Would you like me to?"

"Yes! Here," she said, rising from the bench and extending her hand to him. "Let me help." From one of the large pockets on her skirt, she produced a small gardening shovel, and with a few quick motions, had a small hole dug for each seed. "There, now put one in each hole." He did so, and when he finished, she patted the dirt back on top of the seeds.

Erik looked around. "I should have brought something to water them with."

"No problem," she said pointing to the bench, and Erik suddenly noticed there was a battered old watering can on the ground next to it.

"That wasn't here before…was it?"

"Of course, it was. I think it got left here from one of your visits."

Erik didn't think so, but what did it matter? He retrieved the watering can, by now not surprised to find there was water in it, yet it had not rained in the week since he'd returned. Together, they watered the seeds.

"There," said Christine, standing up, her hands on her hips and a satisfied grin on her face. "Now, those seeds will grow into trees, straight and tall, and in years to come, anyone who sits on this lovely old bench will be able to enjoy their shade."

"Christine, I…" He hesitated. "I know you're not really here—"

"I'm not?"

"—but it doesn't really matter. You see, I need to talk to you…about Aurelia. Our daughter wants me to go with her to Paris, but I don't know. That would mean leaving you..."

"But of course, you should go with her! Before you know it, she'll be married and raising a family of her own. If my own father could have accompanied me, imagine how happy it would have made me. Going to Paris with her could be your last chance to really be with her before she creates a life of her own. Don't let this opportunity pass you by."

"But...what about you?"

"Haven't I told you this before?" She placed her hand over his heart. "I'm always here, with you."

Later, they walked hand in hand to the pond where they sat and reminisced. She insisted that he lie down with her in the soft moss along the banks. He could feel her in his arms, smell her perfume, and he drank it in like a draught of a healing elixir. Much later, he woke up by the pond, alone. Dawn had broken. Larks announced the coming of the morning light, reminding him that it was time to return home. His daughter would be missing him.

-0-0-0-

A year later, Paris was enjoying a milder than usual autumn. Although October had arrived, summer's warmth remained. Outside, the unseasonable heat wilted the chrysanthemums and other fall flowers in the window boxes. Inside, it was a different matter, as a decidedly icy chill descended upon the townhouse that sat in this most fashionable part of the city.

"Whatever were you thinking when you resigned your commission? Do you know what I had to go through to secure that for you?"

Two men—father and son—were seated in the older man's elegantly appointed study. Vincent, the younger of the two, looked about the room, admiring as he always did the book-covered walls, the graceful mahogany furniture and chairs upholstered in the finest leather, all in the latest art nouveau style. It was a man's room, complete with a liquor cabinet on the wall and a cigar humidor on the desk. It was also a room much beloved from childhood. Growing up, it had been a haven into which his father had allowed him to escape the clutches of his younger sisters' prattling, but Vincent wasn't a child anymore. Only a week shy of his twentieth birthday, and having spent two years in the naval service, he was a strapping young man. His dark blond hair, warm brown eyes, and generally striking good looks made all the society _mamans_ look upon him as an excellent catch for their daughters. That—and the inheritance that would one day be his.

Normally, he was the apple of his father's eye, but right now, dear _Papa_ was more than a little miffed with him. With still a year left in his tour of duty, Vincent had decided that life upon the ocean blue was not for him. Being aboard a ship for months at a time with only other men for company was too limiting, too confining, and there was too much beyond his own control. The weather, for instance. One cyclone off the coast of Australia had cost them dearly, and they'd barely made it back to port with rent sails, midships stove in, and a topmast snapped in two. He had decided that it would be more fun to be on firm ground, thank you very much… or as firm as it could be when one was driving the latest automobile with the throttle wide open. At least he'd have his life in his own hands, and there was nothing quite like the feel of the buffeting wind while speeding along an open road. Besides, his father wouldn't stay angry for very long. Not only was Vincent the oldest child, he was the only son, which never hurt.

"You called upon a few old friends and asked them for a favor for your son," he replied at last. "As for what I was thinking? I was thinking that a naval career really isn't for me, especially when you consider how much I dislike the water."

His father snorted in disgust. "Stop being so flippant! It's unbecoming in a young man of your status."

Vincent pretended to look ashamed, but wasn't terribly successful at it. "Yes, Father."

"Have you no care for your family, your noble name?"

The young man rolled his shoulders, a gesture he'd recently taken to using because he knew it irritated his father. "You know I have trouble taking orders."

His father threw up his arms in despair. "Well, what's done is done."

"Does this mean you're not going to cut off my allowance?"

"Cut off your allowance? And then what would you do? I'll not set tongues wagging by turning you out, penniless."

"I wouldn't starve, Father. I do have some skills, you know. I may not have stuck it out in the navy, but I did learn a few things there as well as all that stuff I learned in those fancy schools you kept sending me to."

"And kept getting expelled from."

Vincent raised his eyebrows. "Did I do that?"

The Old Man (as Vincent sometimes called his father behind his back, although he admitted to himself that his father wasn't all that old) chuckled. It hadn't taken long for him to come around, as Vincent knew he eventually would. "Dammit, you know I wouldn't do that to you…no matter how much you go out of your way to annoy me." He reached over and unstopped the decanter on the table next to him, then poured them each a drink. "Here."

Vincent grinned and accepted the glass. "Thank you, Father." He drank the liquid slowly, savoring the flavor of aged single malt Scotch whisky.

Now that the air was cleared between them, things settled back to their usual, more amiable nature. "So, what are you planning on doing with yourself, now that you are a civilian once again?"

"Not sure. I thought I'd enter this year's Gordon Bennett Cup or one of the other races," he said casually, as if the new sport of motor-car racing were beginning to bore him. "The plan is to have the race run from Paris to Rouen, but some are talking about changing the route."

His father shook his head and rolled his eyes heavenward as he asked the Divine Being above, _Why me?_ "Why must you engage in such reckless activities? Those things are dangerous; they go too fast."

"Didn't you once tell me that you raced horses when you were my age?"

"Yes…but riding on horseback is safer."

"Oh, really?"

"Stop contradicting me. You'll end up killing yourself one of these days, driving one of the contraptions at breakneck speeds. Either yourself, or someone else. And you know how that would upset your mother."

Vincent nodded seriously. "Then I shall have to be very careful not to do either."

As if on cue, there was a knock on the door. "Is it all right to enter?"

Vincent smiled. It was his mother, bless her heart. "Yes, _Maman_. Father and I are done arguing."

A petite woman with luxurious chestnut-colored hair and sparkling eyes to match came in. "Oh, good. I was hoping I wouldn't have any messes to clean up." She walked over to her son and gave him a quick peck on the cheek. "The two of you are too much alike—both headstrong and stubborn."

"Aren't they the same thing?"

"Perhaps, but it doesn't matter. So, I take it you've told your father?"

Vincent's father looked at his wife. "You knew our son had resigned his commission?"

"But of course. A boy's best friend is his mother, after all."

Vincent hid his laughter behind the drink he held to his lips. "Well, it's time I shook some of the dust off of me," he said, finishing his drink and making to leave the room.

"One moment," said his mother. "I'll come with you."

They crossed the polished marble floors of the vast foyer while servants scuttled aside, moving out of the way as inconspicuously as possible. Arm in arm, mother and son ascended the stairs to the second floor, where suites of rooms for the family awaited in perfect order. The interior was decorated in cool, pale colors that the lady of the house preferred. Her taste tilted towards simple but elegant furnishings, the best that money could buy. Silk carpets hand-knotted in the Orient quieted their footsteps as they walked down the long hallway leading to Vincent's chambers.

They stopped in front of the doors to his rooms, and his mother looked up at Vincent with gentle reproach.

"Tell me the truth. How did it go?" she asked.

"The old man was hammer and tongs…I mean, he was a bit upset with me, but he's getting over it."

"I'll talk to him some more."

He smiled at his mother. "Please, don't bother. It's not as if Father and I have never disagreed before."

"This is true."

He bent over and kissed her on the forehead. "I'll be going out after I've changed clothes. Don't bother holding up supper for me. I'm not sure when I'll get home. I might get something to eat while I'm out."

"Where are you going, Son?"

"Out for a drive." He could hardly wait to get into the Peugeot _Bébé_ that he had bought before setting sail. Only two years old, it was no longer the latest model, but it was still new to him.

His mother nodded patiently, and returned to her private sitting room down the long hallway, where her needlework awaited. It wasn't long before she heard Vincent padding along the carpet on his way out. He paused at the doorway and touched two fingers to his brow in lieu of saying goodbye. "Be careful," she called after him as he dashed out the door moments later and into the automobile that had been carefully garaged in his absence. She smiled to herself when she heard the engine roar. "Boys and their toys," she said ruefully, as her son sped away.

-0-0-0-

Studying at the conservatory in Uppsala had given Aurelia a fine vocal education. Her teachers had referred to her as "the new Swedish nightingale," using the epithet given to the beloved singer, Jenny Lind. Like Lind, Aurelia had burst onto the stage at a young age, and like her predecessor, she quickly became the darling of the Royal Swedish Opera. And like Lind, she also moved to Paris to continue her studies and to explore a brave, new world.

Her father had gradually introduced her into living away from home by first establishing an apartment in Uppsala where she was close to home, but once she decided to move to Paris, her occasional trips to visit her godfather had proved essential. Erik had kept the modest apartment near the opera house, which now became Aurelia's home. It had ample room for him to visit her whenever he wished, and he could comfortably spend the entire winter with her, which would be convenient once Aurelia made her debut during the opera season.

Now nearly twenty years old, Aurelia was slightly older than some of the other girls at the _Conservatoire National, _and she often felt unsophisticated in comparison to those who had grown up in cities. Her success in Sweden counted for nothing in the snooty Parisian conservatoire, where she had to prove that she deserved her reputation. The teachers were often particularly hard on her; she was sure they demanded more from her than the others and she was determined to prove her mettle.

Today had been particularly trying. Perhaps the piece she was working on was hard for her to grasp. After one humiliating error, her maestro had blurted out, "If you weren't such a country bumpkin you would understand the refinement of this phrase!" A chorus of giggles had erupted behind her back, and she felt her cheeks burning with embarrassment, which made her next attempt all the more difficult. After rehearsal, she had left the conservatory in a pathetic mood, filled with self-pity and doubt, completely preoccupied by her misery. She walked along the lonely, winding roadway, her feet pounding into the pavement, lost in her thoughts. She never saw the speeding automobile that nearly ran her down.

Screeching tires and a blaring horn startled her out of her trance. She leaped to the side as the fast-moving automobile careened towards her, its driver struggling to maintain control and to avoid hitting her. The motorcar hurtled past her with inches to spare; the spokes of the wheel caught the hem of her skirt and dragged her to the ground just as the car came to a jarring stop in the ditch beside the road. The sudden stillness was broken only by the sound of the vehicle's engine sputtering to a halt.

She checked herself for injuries, counting herself lucky not to have been pulled under the wheels and crushed to death. Aside from a few scrapes and bruises, she was relatively unhurt, though her reticule would never be the same. It, and the contents inside, were stuck beneath a tire, hopelessly ruined. She pulled herself to her feet and grabbed the side of the auto for support when her left ankle gave way beneath her. It throbbed, but appeared to merely be twisted. She glared at the man who had nearly killed her.

The driver was still in his seat, a bit dazed from his head colliding with the steering wheel when his car ran into the ditch. He was breathing furiously as he assessed the damage to his motorcar, and used the heel of his hand to staunch the bleeding from his brow. He was swathed from head to toe in the latest driving costume: a knee-length coat, dark goggles, a jaunty hat, and a long white silk scarf carefully tucked inside his collar. Aurelia grimaced when she saw the scarf, now ruined by dark red splotches of blood.

"What the hell were you doing in the middle of the road!" he shouted.

Any burgeoning sympathy for him vanished instantly. "Maniac!" she responded angrily. "You could have killed me."

He jumped down from the car and stood in front of her with his hands on his hips. He towered over her as he stared at her accusingly. "You've wrecked my carriage! The tire is ruined." He pointed at the flat tire that had ruptured upon impact with the sharp stones that lined the roadside ditch.

Aurelia met him glare for glare. It would take more than an angry look to frighten her. "Perhaps you'll have to change it, then. Unless you don't want to get your hands dirty!"

She watched as his scowl softened, and a glimmer of humor lit up his eyes. He was seeing her for the first time, of that she was sure. His gaze wandered over her auburn locks, which were falling out of the pins that had held it in a careful coiffure, and met her eyes.

"Hey. Did you know your eyes are different colors?" he said, as if it were an intelligent observation. There was something in his tone, though, that was disarming. She felt herself leaning towards him, basking in that charming grin he wore.

"Are you injured?" she asked.

Concern washed over him. "I should be asking you that. Are you all right?"

"I'll be fine. You needn't bother about me." She tried to take a step away from the vehicle, but her ankle would not support her weight. She felt him take her elbow to keep her from falling.

He was very close to her now, right beside her. His grip was firm and strong, and though she knew he was being awfully familiar with her, she sort of liked it. "I'm afraid I'll have trouble walking back to my apartment," she said softly. "I suppose I wasn't watching where I was going."

"It was entirely my fault," he said quickly. "I was driving far too fast for a one-lane road." He gestured to a tree nearby. "Why don't you sit there a moment, while I access the damage to my vehicle?" He pursed his lips and frowned. "Let me…. Here," he said, lifting her into his arms. "Let me carry you. We don't want you to injure that ankle any further." He walked a few feet away. "Why, you're as light as a feather. There's nothing to you but skin and bones under those…." He stopped. It was completely inappropriate to speak of what a lady was like underneath her clothes.

She giggled a little in return. She couldn't help it. He was a big man, a "strapping lad" as her father would say, but he was acting like a schoolboy. "Monsieur, if you'll put me down, I assure you I'll be fine."

"Wait here," he said, as he set her gently on the ground. He shrugged off his coat and spread it on the grass for Aurelia to sit upon. "I'll have the tire changed in jiffy, and I'll take you home." He stretched out his arms and shook them in the air, loosening his muscles for the job ahead.

Aurelia took in his well-muscled form as inconspicuously as possible. He certainly seemed up to the task. "Home?" she said vacantly. Her eyebrows crept up her forehead while she blinked. "You mean, you'll let me ride in your motorcar?" She stared at the automobile in open wonder. It was a racing automobile, no doubt about it. She'd seen photographs of them in the newspaper, and here was one in front of her, shiny metal and gleaming glass, the leather seats smelling like new shoes.

There it was again: that charming grin. He hadn't missed her interest in the carriage. "Sure. I always provide transportation for pretty girls I nearly run down."

She bit her lip as she considered the offer. "All right," she said brightly. "I'd like that very much." After a moment's hesitation, she offered him her name. "I'm Aurelia," she said in the most musical way.

"Vincent," he replied, holding out his hand, delighted when she accepted it. He bowed low and grazed the back of her gloved hand with his lips, stealing a glimpse of her as he did so. She was smiling back at him in a way that made him feel warm all over. "I'm very pleased to meet you."

-0-0-0-

It was almost nightfall, and Aurelia was overdue. Erik paced the wooden floors of the apartment and checked his pocket watch. "She should have been home an hour ago," he muttered. He'd only been in Paris a few days, and had been pleased with Aurelia's progress. She was settling into her routine quite well, and after two years of visiting her godfather whenever she could, she had come to know Paris like the back of her hand. Perhaps her lessons had run late, he thought, as he tried to push the image of her lying injured in a ditch out of his mind. Fatherhood in quiet Gamla Uppsala, where nothing unexpected ever happened, had ill-prepared him for moments such as this. He went to the foyer and grabbed his overcoat off the hall tree, ready to go out searching for her. He'd wring the maestro's neck if anything had happened to her. Or worse yet, he'd turn the man over to Bruguière. Retirement had not dulled his legal skills one whit. If anything untoward had occurred, there'd be consequences.

He dashed down the stairs to the ground floor and reached for the doorknob. Much to his relief, he heard the welcome sound of Aurelia's voice coming from the outside. He jerked open the heavy door so quickly that Aurelia jumped backwards…smack against the broad chest of a tall, handsome young man standing behind her.

"What's this?" Erik asked, not at all amused. He scowled at the way the stranger was holding Aurelia by the arm, and instinctively reached for her.

Aurelia limped forward. "Father, this nice young man helped me home. After my lesson, I went for a walk and I…twisted my ankle. Oh, don't fret. I'll be fine by morning. It's nothing, really."

Erik growled. "And what happened to your purse? It's ruined. There's more to this story that you're not telling me."

"I…dropped it and it was run over by a motorcar," she said. She gave her father a kiss on the cheek, and whispered in his ear, "Don't be angry."

"Which motorcar? The one parked in front of the apartment?" Erik asked suspiciously.

They stood on the sidewalk in front of the apartment building, the tall front door still ajar. Gaslight from sconces spilled out onto the sidewalk, making Erik's flesh-colored mask glow in the gloaming. In this twilight, Erik knew that his mismatched eyes took on an unsettling appearance, and he used it to his advantage to intimidate the boy. Much to his credit, Aurelia's new friend was not staring at Erik like some slack-jawed yokel. Instead, he held out his hand and grasped Erik's own in a firm handshake. Erik noted that the boy's gaze did not linger on his mask, nor on his twisted lip. The young man did not shy away from him, as most people did, but appeared unruffled by Erik's strange appearance. He was also very tall—perhaps a hair taller than Erik himself—which made him all the more impressive.

"Now I see where you get your eyes," the boy said to Aurelia, as if they were old chums.

This familiarity would not do. Not at all. "And what is your name, young man?" Erik asked formally.

"Vincent, sir. Vincent de Chagny."

-0-0-0-

In the shadows, a stranger took in the scene. He flattened himself against the wall, making himself nearly invisible in the gathering darkness. Disheveled and dirty, it had been a long time since he had enjoyed the comfort of kith and kin. He watched the scene unfolding some distance away from him and felt hatred growing inside his stone-cold heart. They were well off, well fed, and well dressed. He loathed their kind. The ones who had it easy all their lives. Who never knew the stab of hunger, the sting of betrayal. The bitter loneliness of a prison cell. He scratched an itch that was undoubtedly caused by vermin, and grunted. Lice. Just what he needed.

At that moment, the older man turned towards the light, exposing the mask for the whole world to see. The vagabond's breath caught in his throat. "Him," he moaned aloud.

Slinking away, he kept his eyes on the man as he retreated into an alley. "At last," he said, and clasped his filthy hands across his mouth to hold back a cackle. "I've found him! And I have found his weakness! This could not have been better if I had planned it!" He clasped his arms around himself and twirled around in a demented dance of joy.

Had anyone been standing close enough to hear the ragged man's rant, the words would have made the blood run cold in his veins. "'It is mine to avenge,'" chanted the stranger eerily. "'I will repay. In due time their foot will slip; their day of disaster is near and their doom rushes upon them. O Lord, God of Vengeance, shine forth!'"


	44. Chapter 44

**To Be Loved**  
**Chapter 44**

**By HDKingsbury & MadLizzy**

**Authors' Note:** February 7, 2011. Thank you, Gentle Readers, for your patience in waiting for this chapter. Between two major snow storms...and (I'm reluctant to admit this) becoming totally engaged in yesterday's Super Bowl, this chapter is a wee bit late. But not too much. Thank you also to all of you who read this story, and many, many thanks to those of you who leave reviews/feedback. You make our day! ~HD

_There are no accidents so unlucky from which clever people are not able to reap some advantage, and none so lucky that the foolish are not able to turn them to their own disadvantage._

~Francois de La Rochefoucauld

_So_, thought Vincent, _this is Mademoiselle Aurelia's father_.

He wasn't sure what he had expected when he drove the young woman to her home, but being greeted by a scowling older man who covered half of his face with a mask wasn't it. The glowering expression didn't help matters. No doubt, it was meant to make the average person quake in his boots, but Vincent never considered himself to be average. He had braved far more ferocious opponents on the high seas, whether it was an overbearing superior officer or a raging gale. Now that he took a closer look, he decided that the mask wasn't particularly intimidating, either.

His life had hardly been a sheltered one. Over the years, he had seen an assortment of disfigured and deformed men—war veterans, beggars, even strolling performers—on the streets of Paris, and assumed that the facial covering presently in front of him hid some scar or deformity. Seeing it had been a surprise, but little more, and once he got over a masked man answering the door, Vincent didn't give the matter any further thought. However, while the mask itself was little more than a curiosity, the expression on the face underneath it indicated that Mlle Aurelia's father was highly irritated, and that made this a horse of a different color.

Vincent had discovered that Mlle Aurelia was not only an attractive young woman, but also a lively conversationalist. During their short drive to her apartment, Vincent had decided that he would like to get to know her better. Therefore, it would not do to upset her father any more than he already had. With that in mind, he did what he always did when facing a touchy situation—he smiled and turned on the charm. He held out his hand in the age-old expression of friendship and said, "A pleasure to meet you, Monsieur Delacorte."

It was Erik's turn to size up the situation. He considered the young man standing in the foyer, annoyed at the insipid-looking grin on that handsome face as the boy held out his hand. What did he expect Erik to do, shake it? And what did he say his name was again? De Chagny, eh? A sick feeling roiled through the pit of his stomach. Was it possible that this was the boy's pup? Dammit! Why couldn't he even bring himself to think _his_ name?

Erik looked closer at Vincent. From head to toe, the young man looked like he came from money. A myriad of questions raced through his head. _He even looks like his father, if the vicomte is indeed his father. Or is Raoul a comte by now? Wasn't there an older brother named Philippe? Yes, that's right. Comte Philippe used to be seen with La Sorelli, the dancer. Is Philippe still alive?_

Not that any of this was of importance. What mattered was that this young man, this slave of fashion – _Isn't that what I once called Raoul?_ – had tried to run down his daughter and now had the gall to stand and smirk as if he'd done something great! Erik felt the anger in him rise and his fingers twitched, eager for the feel of a length of rope between them.

_Yes, that would make everything better._

Then he glanced over at Aurelia, saw the expectant look on her face, and forced himself to calm down.

_What would Christine do?_

He already knew the answer to that. She would be the epitome of grace and charm. Very well. He could be that, too! And so Erik took Vincent's hand and smiled a smile that did not reach his eyes.

"De Chagny, eh? Any relation to Raoul de Chagny?"

"Why yes. I am the son of the Vicomte de Chagny, but I trust you won't hold that against me." Vincent gave a self-deprecating smile. "Do you know him?"

Erik hesitated. "We…met once or twice. It was years ago."

"What a fascinating coincidence, then. I mean, that you and my father were friends, and now your daughter and I…"

"I didn't say we were friends."

"Acquaintances, then." Vincent considered, and then added with a touch of humor, "You weren't enemies, were you?"

Erik was about to make a scathing retort when a stifled gasp from his daughter caught his attention.

Aurelia had watched with growing dismay as her father and Vincent appeared intent on engaging in a bit of masculine one-upmanship. That her father would react in such a manner didn't come as much of a surprise. He was, in his way, terribly protective of her, but she wished he would simply say thank you to Vincent and leave it at that. Oh, he was pretending to be polite, but Aurelia knew better. So while the two men were busy with their staring contest, she hobbled over to the nearest chair. She hoped that by moving away on her own, she would attract their attention, but neither appeared to notice. She sighed and looked up at the ceiling, pondering the ways of so-called adults.

Her movements must have at last gained their notice, because now both were watching her settle into the chair, her father gazing at her with parental concern and Vincent with a hint of fascination.

"Might I call on Mlle Delacorte tomorrow, to inquire as to how she is recovering?" Vincent was asking.

At the mention of her name, Aurelia looked over at Vincent. She liked him. Granted, their introduction had hardly come under ideal circumstances, but that didn't matter. What did matter was that after they'd each calmed down, they actually struck it off quite nicely. There was a vibrancy and liveliness about Vincent de Chagny that made him more interesting than the boys back home. She flashed him a smile, letting him know that his concerns were appreciated.

"I don't think that will be necessary," her father replied.

Aurelia frowned and broke in, "I think it would be very nice of you to do so, Monsieur de Chagny. In fact, I was hoping I might beg a favor of you."

"A favor?" Vincent and her father asked in unison.

"Yes, a favor. I was wondering if I could possibly get you to take me to the Conservatory tomorrow morning. Although nothing is broken, I suspect my ankle will still be tender."

A grimace crossed Erik's face. "How do you know nothing is broken? I should send for a doctor at once."

"No need, Monsieur Delacorte," said Vincent. "I am well trained in administering first aid. One of the things I learned while in the service. I examined Mademoiselle's ankle myself." He ignored the grunt of dismay that his disclosure elicited. "As she says, it's a little tender, but nothing serious – thankfully. And I would be more than happy to take her to her classes tomorrow morning."

Erik harumphed and was about to turn down the young man's offer. "I don't think that's necessary, de Chagny. I'll be the judge of the seriousness of the injury, and I'll thank you to keep your hands off my daughter's ankles." He did not need to add, "and the rest of her, too" for Vincent to get his meaning. "I am perfectly capable of hailing a cab and seeing that my daughter is cared for properly."

Aurelia, however, had other ideas. "I think it is very sweet of Monsieur de Chagny to offer his assistance, and as long as he is willing, there is no need to drag you away from your work." To Vincent, she said, "My first class begins at nine o'clock," and cast an impish glance at her father. "If you could come for me around eight, I'd be ever in your debt." She smiled charmingly and lowered her eyelids in an unmistakably flirtatious manner, oblivious to her father's objections.

Vincent gave a gracious bow. "I would be delighted."

-0-0-0-

Polite good-byes were made, and Erik could hardly wait to shut the door after seeing Vincent drive off in his motorcar. It was unbearably noisy and belched the most disagreeable fumes, but Erik couldn't help wondering, for one moment, how it would feel to ride in such a machine. Or better yet, to drive it, faster and faster, until all of one's problems were left behind. All the way back to Sweden, perhaps, with Aurelia tucked safely in the seat beside him.

"You weren't all very pleasant to Vincent."

Erik looked at his daughter, who was still sitting in the chair by the wall, a puzzled frown creasing his forehead. "Whatever do you mean? I was polite. I didn't snap his head off for nearly causing you great injury."

"You can't fool me. You were barely civil to the young man."

"There is more to this story that you aren't telling me, which in itself forces me to worry. You've never kept secrets from me before!" Erik began to pace the room, trying to find the right words to say. "I know you are...taken with him, that you find him dashing, but he may also represent a case of entitlement gone wrong. Vincent's father never worried a day in his privileged life about how he would support himself and his family, and I wager that Vincent has seldom – if ever – worked and that he spends the majority of his time at racetracks."

"He spent two years in the navy," she countered, but her father ignored her comment.

"My dear, you must realize that among the upper crust there is this perpetual problem of failing to pass on to their children what matters most in life with respect to values and ethics. By and large, such families give their children everything except those moral lessons which are beyond price. Invariably, they produce a disabled generation."

As her father pontificated, Aurelia remembered why the name de Chagny sounded so familiar. It was in her father's memoirs and her mother's diary. It was the name of the young man her mother had once had an interest in, before she met father. In an instant, she understood the reason behind her father's behavior.

"Really, Father. Aren't you over reacting a little?"

"If I were, there'd be no more discussion. The de Chagnys and their ilk would be out of our lives for good!"

"Oh!" Aurelia cried in exasperation. "It's no use talking to you when you're like this! I don't know how Mother ever put up with you!" She huffed as she pulled herself to her feet and tried to limp to her room with as much indignation as she could muster, but her injured ankle was too painful. Trouncing out was simply impossible, so she held onto the chair and looked up to her father with tear-filled eyes. "Could we please not talk about this right now?"

Erik's resolve melted. He put an arm around his daughter's waist, taking the weight off her foot, and helped her to the nearest sofa. "Let me have a look at your ankle," he muttered. After touching it lightly and evaluating the bruises and swelling, he seemed satisfied that the injury wasn't serious. "Don't move," he told her, as he placed a soft pillow under her foot and went off in search of bandages and other necessities.

Aurelia unpinned her hat and let it drop to the floor as she settled into the soft cushions behind her back. "Vincent de Chagny," she sighed. Already, she was planning what she'd wear in the morning, when he came to call for her.

-0-0-0-

Vincent took the stairs two at a time, hurrying back to his motorcar. He leaped over the door without opening it, and settled into the driver's seat. After a brief peek at the lit windows of the Delacorte apartment on the top floor of the building, he adjusted his goggles, started the engine, turned on the driving lamps, and sped into the night.

Minutes later, he arrived at the de Chagny townhouse. He parked in the porte-cochère, knowing that his valet would have the chauffeur move the motorcar into the garage in the rear. As he strode into the house, the tolling of a bell announced that it was suppertime. He could smell the aroma of exquisitely prepared food wafting from the kitchen, and could hear the bustle of servants preparing to serve the first course.

A quick wash and he'd be in time to join the family. Fortunately, tonight there were no dinner guests at table, a rarity. The de Chagnys were known for their hospitality; rarely did they spend time without the company of business partners, government officials, friends, or relatives, and after the excitement of the afternoon, Vincent was looking forward to this evening. He had never knocked down a pedestrian before, especially not a beautiful one, and every time he closed his eyes, he remembered the shock of it. The terror on Aurelia's face as he struggled to avoid running over her. The unspoken accusations from M. Delacorte. That strange mask….

As quickly as possible, he made himself presentable, dashed into the dining room, pecked his mother on the check, and gave a perfunctory nod to the Old Man before plopping down in a chair beside his twelve-year-old sister, Zoé. She promptly poked him in the ribs and chuckled when he flinched.

As the baby of the family, she was utterly spoiled, and lived up to expectations that she'd be a handful. Sassy and bright, Zoé was an inveterate prankster and was often the bane of the upstairs staff's existence. Her practical jokes were legendary (toads in the children's beds were the least of the maids' worries) though everyone knew that she was egged on by her brother. Clearly, he enjoyed playing pranks as much as she did and never tired of goading her on.

As he took his seat, Vincent announced, "I met this queer bird today," and then went on to regale his family with how he "met" Aurelia, glossing over how he almost ran her down.

The eldest girl, Moerogis, jumped on it like a hound on the scent. At eighteen, she was on the verge of womanhood, but not too mature to refrain from teasing her brother. "Vincent has a girlfriend," she half sang, prompting the other girls to join in.

"She's not my girlfriend, Gigi," he said, using her pet name. "She's a very nice young lady I met."

Fifteen-year-old Camille, giggled while tossing out, "I think Vincent's in love," and other sisterly taunts. Of the three, she was the most outgoing, and spent much of her time visiting her friends and their families. She was also the most beautiful, graced with her father's features and exquisite complexion, and was guaranteed to break hearts one day.

"Shush, Cammie," Vincent said gruffly. He blushed, which guaranteed more teasing. He continued his tale, and then came the part where he met Aurelia's father. "And would you believe it? He actually wears a mask on half of his face!"

The girls laughed and giggled, not noticing that their father had turned pale as a sheet. "What did you say her name was again?" Raoul asked when he finally found his voice. Mention of a man who wore half a mask had suddenly made the delicious meal in front of him taste like cardboard. He waved away the staff, indicating that the family could serve themselves.

"Delacorte, Father. Her name is Aurelia Delacorte. Are you all right? You look awfully white."

His mother noticed the change, too. "Yes, dear. You look quite ill. Perhaps you should lie down. I can send for Doctor Durand—"

Raoul waved his wife's concerns aside. "I'm perfectly fine, my dear." To his son, he asked, "What did you say the father's name was again?"

"I think he said his first name was Erik."

Raoul thought he was ready for it, but this time the mention of the hated name almost caused him to choke on the piece of veal he was chewing, while Clementine's eyes lit up with excitement.

"Son, do you mean Monsieur Erik Delacorte, the author of _Memoirs of an Opera Ghost?"_ Suddenly, Clementine felt her heart fluttering like that of a lovesick girl, while her husband—his color improving—scowled.

"What do you know of him?" he asked.

The girls all giggled again and started babbling on about how much they love the Opera Ghost's memoirs and adventures. Clementine admitted she was a long-time admirer of the stories, and confessed to owning a copy of every one of Delacorte's books.

Raoul rolled his eyes, while Vincent looked on, bewildered at the reaction to the name. "Am I always the last to know these things?" he groaned.

Clementine gazed at her husband solicitously. "Oh, that's right. Didn't you and Monsieur Delacorte have some sort of misunderstanding before we were married?"

Raoul pushed his dinner plate aside and took another drink of wine. "I don't care to talk about it."

His wife was not to be refused. "I remember now. It was over a woman. What was her name? Christine?"

"Clementine, dear, I said I'd rather not talk about it. It's ancient history." He did his best to reassure his wife that she had always been the treasure of his heart, but all this talk of Erik had made him lose his appetite. He excused himself and left the table, the rest of the family taken aback at Raoul's sudden change in behavior.

Vincent looked at his mother. "What's with the Old Man?"

"I wish you wouldn't call your father that. It isn't very respectful."

"It's not that I don't respect him, but he is old. Well, older than me."

"Father certainly is acting strange all of a sudden," said Gigi.

"Yes, he's certainly got a bee under his bonnet," added Cammie.

"But, Papa's not wearing a bonnet—" said Zoé, and everyone broke out laughing when they realized that she was being the jokester once again.

"Sorry," said Vincent. "I didn't mean to upset Father." He made a point of emphasizing the word father. His mother smiled approvingly. "I had no idea he even knew this Delacorte."

"That's because you're too busy with your motorcars and your racing. Mlle Aurelia does sound like quite a nice young lady, though, especially to have caught your eye. I know; why don't you invite the young lady, and her father, to lunch one day?"

Vincent grinned slyly. "Don't try to fool me. You just want to meet your favorite author. You do realize that those stories are pure fiction…don't you?"

"Yes, but they are such delightful fiction!"

"Do you think Father will be amenable to this?"

"Who's asking your father for permission?"

Vincent laughed. "And the Old Man wonders where I get it from!"

-0-0-0-

The following morning brought with it a clear, fresh day with cool, crisp air and brilliant blue, cloudless skies. Dazzling sunshine quickly dried pearls of dew from the grass, and the promise of autumn was positively energizing. In short, it was a perfect day to get out and enjoy the weather on the de Chagny estate near the center of the city.

After the death of the old Comte de Chagny a little more than thirty years ago, Philippe had found himself responsible for two unmarried sisters and a much younger brother. Their mother had died giving birth to Raoul, succumbing to childbed fever. Thus, Philippe was barely into his twenties when he found himself responsible for the entire estate.

The two sisters could not bear to divide the family property near the Bois de Boulogne, and begged Philippe to preserve it intact. He did not disappoint them, and chose to secure a townhouse for himself where he could entertain lady friends, if he so desired, and had maintained a separate residence ever since. Raoul had grown up in the best boarding schools money could buy, and then spent time in the Navy before returning to Paris. After a brief infatuation with an aspiring opera singer, the vicomte had announced his engagement to his second cousin, Clementine Margarethe von Hohenburg de Ramburse Beauchamp. Philippe and his sisters offered the estate to Raoul as a wedding present, but Raoul, knowing how much his sisters loved the home, declined. Instead, he chose a townhouse with plenty of room for the brood of little de Chagnys that he and Clem planned to raise.

On this fine morning, Raoul and his much older brother were preparing to play a match or two of lawn tennis. Raoul sat on a nearby bench, putting on his tennis shoes, while the Comte stretched his arms and prepared to play. The courts had been meticulously maintained over the years, for the de Chagny men enjoyed their sports. Tall and deceptively fragile-looking, they made a striking pair, although they were separated in years by nearly a generation. Raoul was yet in his early forties, and a devilishly handsome man.

Philippe was the kind of person described as well maintained. He had taken care of himself over the years, as befitted the lover of a famous danseur such as La Sorelli. He and his long-time mistress made an attractive couple, and still caused heads to turn in admiration whenever they appeared together in public. Philippe had never married, and the gossip columns had long ago ceased to broach guesses as to his intentions towards his lover. It was a subject that was never raised by kinfolk, the relationship being deemed untoward, and positively unfit for polite conversation.

Raoul broke the silence. "Can you believe the nerve of that man?"

He finished tying his shoes and stood up abruptly, dropping a towel onto the carefully manicured lawn. His short-sleeved shirt and crisp cotton pants were pristine and cool, perfect for a work out. In the morning light, his blond hair shone like spun gold. Sunlight outlined his slender frame, making his rosy complexion seem all the more beautiful.

The years at sea in his youth, and lately while yachting with his family, had been kind to him, sparing a few laugh lines at the corners of his pale blue eyes. Lean and muscular, he prided himself on the fact that he could pass for a much younger man. A touch of gray at the temples only made him look more distinguished, or so his wife told him. He squinted at the bright light as he looked out over the grounds of the estate, like Apollo himself surveying his realm.

Philippe, standing near the net, glanced at his brother while tossing his tennis racket in his hand, watching it spin in the air when he flicked his wrist. "I thought you said he was ancient. You'd think he'd be dead by now."

Philippe was shorter than Raoul by several inches, but he made up for his lack of reach with gritty determination and surprising agility. He hated losing—games, money, or anything that belonged to him, for that matter—and he hated seeing Raoul working himself into a lather over nothing. "Besides, don't go borrowing trouble. This Aurelia—or whatever her name is—she's only a girl. No doubt a very pretty one, but there are so many in Paris. Vincent won't linger over her too long."

Raoul puzzled at Philippe's last remark, considering his long history with La Sorelli. Somehow, it was not as reassuring as it was meant to be. "How could this have happened?" he groaned. He ran a nervous hand through his neatly trimmed mane.

"Don't pull your hair out, little brother," Philippe remarked. "It isn't worth it. Trust me," he said, pointing at his own receding silver hairline with a grin. "You'll miss it when it's gone."

"You have no idea what kind of trouble this could mean. This man…this Delacorte is a menace to society."

"Don't you ever read the papers? He was exonerated years ago. He and La Daaé have been living happily in Sweden with their daughter in a charming little farmhouse on the edge of the forest. Or so the gossips of Paris have been led to believe."

Raoul rolled his eyes. "No doubt one that is filled with magical creatures and friendly forest animals."

"Now, now," his brother said patiently. "I can't help wondering if it's Delacorte you are actually worried about, and not something else." When Raoul glanced at him questioningly, he continued. "One might imagine, judging from your reaction, that you have lingering feelings where Christine is concerned."

"Nothing could be further from the truth," Raoul said with a derisive snort. All the same, he seemed confused. Perhaps his brother was onto something. "Philippe," he asked tentatively, "You don't think that…you wouldn't…I mean, we've been happy, haven't we, Clemmie and I?"

"Of course you have. Clementine is the very picture of domestic tranquility. She's been the ideal wife. Why, the parties at your home are the envy of every woman in Paris, the most sought after invitation of all; besides which, you have four wonderful children. There's never been a moment of rancor between you." He peered at his little brother. "At least, none that I've heard of."

Raoul seemed to be lost in thought momentarily, but whatever was troubling him, he shook it off. "I do love her, you know. Look, why don't I take her on holiday? The children as well. They've always wanted to visit Luxor, and see those pyramids everyone's talking about. We could stay at that place you recommended. The Winter Palace, wasn't it? You raved about it."

"That's the ticket," Philippe replied. He stopped twirling the racket long enough to smooth out his white pants, and tugged on the hem of his sleeveless sweater, the latest tennis costume. He looked smashing in it, and he knew it. "But first, why don't you pay a call to Christine and her husband, and try to mend the fences? After all, I remember what happened when you were Vincent's age. If he thinks you don't want him to see the Delacorte girl, it will only make him more determined to see her. At least this way, you'll know what they're up to."

"Clem made a suggestion along those lines," Raoul replied, his frown betraying his own misgivings on the matter. "She went so far as to suggest that we invite them to our home! That's crazy, isn't it? I mean, I'd love to see Christine again, and I have no objection to meeting her daughter, but…him! That fiend, that, that monster in my home! At my table! Where my children will be seated! It's unconscionable, don't you agree?"

Philippe put a hand on his brother's shoulder and stared at him pointedly. "You should listen to Clemmie. She has all the brains in the family." He grinned to show that he was only kidding.

The vicomte rocked on his feet while his thoughts vacillated. "I see what you mean. Vincent can be…difficult. Sending him into the Navy only made him more defiant. I wouldn't put it past him to go behind my back if I forbid him to see this girl."

He stared at his brother as he made up his mind. "Perhaps I will call on Christine." He deliberately avoided mentioning Christine's husband, since he'd prefer never to see that charlatan again. He strode over to the court and batted a ball up and down on the sweet spot in the center of his racket.

"Right after I win this match."

-0-0-0-

Playing tennis with his older brother was hardly a challenge for Raoul any more, considering that Philippe had begun to slow down in recent years, but it had served to loosen him up for the main event – his meeting with Erik. While he bathed in his old suite of rooms at the family estate, a feeling of paranoia swept over him, making him wonder if Erik hadn't planned all of this. It wouldn't be beyond Erik to have set up this "chance" meeting between their children, but for what purpose?

He shook off his misgivings, dressed in a freshly pressed morning suit, and headed over to the address Vincent had given him, the Delacorte apartment on the Rue de Rivoli. He knew that Erik might be at home, but he was willing to take the chance, such was his determination not to drag this out any longer than necessary. Caution had never been his forte. Besides, Christine would not let anything happen to him.

The apartment building was surprisingly respectable. Not that he had expected otherwise, considering the address. Clearly, Delacorte had done well for himself. At least he wasn't living in a cellar, far below ground. No doubt, Christine was to thank for that. As he climbed the stairs, the strains of violin music wafted on the afternoon breeze. He should have known there would be music—there always music where Delacorte was concerned—but Raoul cursed under his breath all the same.

Still, the song filled him with a sense of loss and longing, and tears brimmed unbidden in his eyes and threatened to overflow. The sad refrain brought to mind buried memories of his own violin lessons with old Papa Daaé long ago, in the cottage near the shore of Perros-Guirec. He remembered going into the sea to fetch Christine's red scarf, and the angry admonitions of his governess warning him to be careful, begging him to come back. Christine had thought him heroic, and he had never forgotten the way she had smiled at him, nor the sparkle in her green eyes. She had been as light-hearted as a butterfly that entire summer. What would she be like now?

He raised his fist to knock softly on the door, hoping that Erik wouldn't be able to hear it while he was playing the violin. Perhaps a maid or a butler would arrive…or better yet, maybe Christine would open the door, standing there with a warm and welcoming smile…or perhaps no one would hear him at all. Then, he could return home with a clean conscience and claim he had made the effort. The plaintive music played softly while Raoul weighed his options, but suddenly, the door was jerked open so quickly that he nearly lost his balance.

Erik Delacorte stood towering over Raoul. His shirtsleeves were unbuttoned and rolled up to his elbows, and his fists were balled as if ready for a fight. He was a formidable man even when he wasn't infuriated, but at this moment, he seemed downright dangerous.

"You!" he spat. "How dare you!"

"I could say the same thing!" Raoul sputtered, taking in his old foe's appearance. Erik was wiry and muscular, and for a moment, Raoul wondered if he could take him in a fight. The flesh-colored mask, with its permanent scowl, did little to inspire the vicomte's confidence. "Why don't you go back to Sweden, and take your daughter with you?" he ventured boldly.

"Why don't you send your son to sea, or has the d'Artois been decommissioned? I'm sure there's some other ill-fated voyage he could be stowed away on." His twisted lip took on a cruel smile. "Shanghai, perhaps?"

"You wouldn't!" Raoul cried.

Erik leaned forward, balling up his fists, and shouted back at him. "Of course not! I don't wish the boy ill, as long as he stays away from my daughter!"

Raoul shook his head in disgust. "It's no use. I can't talk to you when you're like this. Where's Christine? I'll speak to her instead."

Erik gripped the doorframe. The wind appeared to have been knocked out of him, and he grimaced with a deep-seated pain that threatened to overwhelm him. Quietly, so quietly Raoul had to listen hard to hear him, he whispered a strangled explanation. "She's dead."

"What?" Now it was Raoul's turn to feel the cold hand of death at his elbow.

Erik turned away lest Raoul see his despair, and took a step or two into the apartment before he responded. "You'll no doubt think I killed her."

"Don't be ridiculous. Everyone knows how much you loved her." Blindly, he followed Erik into the apartment, uninvited, and sat heavily on the divan in the first room on the right. It happened to be the music room where a grand piano stood in the center of the floor. Other instruments lay scattered about, but the surroundings barely registered as news of Christine's death sank in. "When? What happened?"

"Child birth," Erik said simply. His hands fluttered near his grotesque head for a moment, and then he sat at the opposite end of the divan, staring into space with his strange, mismatched eyes.

Raoul was at a loss. His own mother had died of puerperal fever, and all his life he had struggled to shake off the onus of having caused his mother's death simply by being born. "I'm so sorry," he offered, choking out the words. He spotted a filled carafe and several glasses on a table nearby. "Mind if I have a drink?"

Erik motioned towards the water, and paid no attention to Raoul when he stood and helped himself to a glass.

"Is Aurelia your only child?" Raoul asked between sips of the cool liquid.

Erik nodded, the motion barely perceptible.

"Is there a Mrs. Delacorte? I mean, did you remarry?"

Erik glared at him in indignation, but shook his head slowly in response.

"Vincent is our eldest," Raoul mumbled. "We have three daughters. After the last one, my wife could have no more."

"Four weren't enough for you?"

It was Raoul's turn for indignation. He stared, tight-lipped, at his old nemesis.

"Sorry," Erik said. "That was unnecessary. Christine would have expected better from me."

Raoul let out a breath he hadn't even realized he'd been holding. "My wife is a fan of yours," he offered. "She has read all your books."

"My thanks to her." Erik inclined his head slightly in acknowledgement.

"I suspect my daughters have read them, too," Raoul added in a confidential manner.

An eyebrow crept up. "Some of them are not suitable for young children."

"I suspected as much, but my wife insists that adventure stories enrich the imagination."

"They shouldn't have time to read such drivel. Your tutors are wasting their time and your money."

Raoul laughed that nervous, high-pitched laugh of his that always made Erik's flesh crawl. "The books can't be that bad. Clementine—my wife—says that you may be the next Zola. She says your—what did she call it—your 'theatrical naturalism' is brilliant, and she's pulling for you to receive this year's _Légion d'honneur_." When Erik did not react, he added, "It's a prestigious award, especially—"

Erik shot him a nasty look. "For the likes of me?"

"For an ex-patriot. Don't go putting words in my mouth. What I meant to say is, these days, the people don't much care for foreigners."

That got a rise. "I may live in Sweden, but I was born in France! I pay taxes on my earnings. French is my mother tongue. Why, I'm more French than you are, with your German heritage and your Austrian wife."

"Clem is not Austrian," Raoul said hotly. Obviously, this was a sore subject. "Her mother is Hungarian but her father is French. She may have grown up in England, but she's as French as, well, as you or I."

Erik began to laugh, a snicker at first, and then a hearty chuckle. "Do you realize," he said to the perplexed vicomte, "that the two of us are having a conversation? A fairly civil conversation? And you are holding your own. I think this is a first."

Raoul set the water glass down on the table next to the divan. "I came to ask you to lunch. Frankly, I was skeptical, but Clemmie insisted."

"I accept," Erik said abruptly. "I'd like to meet this wife of yours, even if she is a foreigner."

"And Aurelia?" Raoul asked. "Vincent has spoken fondly of her, and of course, we want to meet her."

"She will have to answer for herself. I expect she'll be home any moment, unless that son of yours has run her down again."

"Really, Erik!" Raoul reached for the glass. "That was uncalled for."

Hearing Raoul call him by name stirred Erik, reminding him of a time when the vicomte did not even think he was human. Then he recalled his ancient debt to the vicomte. "You know, I never did thank you for what you did for me, all those years ago. The clothes…the doctor…getting Christine out of harm's way. Your testimony at the trial."

"I didn't do it for you," Raoul snapped. "I'm not that good."

"I know. You did it for her."

"It was clear that she was in love with you," Raoul said quietly, "but I was too pig-headed to see it. Everyone tried to tell me, but I couldn't believe it. I was smitten with her, and assumed she felt the same way about me." His lowered his head. "I made a lot of assumptions back then," he added sheepishly, and then stared at the toes of his shoes. "God, but she was beautiful, and…kind."

"I've never blamed you for loving her. Everyone loved her. I've tried to keep her memory alive, for our daughter's sake. It will be good for Aurelia to meet someone who knew Christine, and who can tell her that everything I've said about her mother was true."

The vicomte snapped out of his reverie. "It's a truce then, for our children's sake. Tomorrow noon at this address." He handed Erik his calling card, upon which he had written an address not far from the Delacorte apartment.

"We're practically neighbors," Erik mused aloud.

Raoul stood to go and offered his hand, which Erik grasped in a firm but brief handshake. No sense lingering over the unpleasantness of touching one another.

In stilted silence, they walked back to the door. In the foyer was an oil painting of Christine, which Raoul hadn't noticed before. She was dressed in her wedding gown, wearing a wreath of flowers atop her strawberry blonde braids, and smiling down on the two of them from on high. In the corner was Erik's signature; he had painted it from memory. They stood and looked at it without commenting, keeping their thoughts to themselves as they lingered with their memories.

"One more thing," Raoul said, breaking the awkward silence. "You won't be offended if Clem or one of the girls asks you for an autograph, will you?"

-0-0-0-

From a secluded spot in the alley across the Rue de Rivoli from the Delacorte home, the stranger stepped out of the shadows where he watched and waited, biding his time for the right moment. His curiosity was piqued as the Vicomte de Chagny entered the building. For a moment, he mused to himself about the possibilities of inveigling the nobleman into helping him with his plan.

Surely, de Chagny would enjoy seeing his old enemy on the ropes.

Dried, cracked lips curled up into a semblance of a smile. He licked his lips, longing to savor the taste of victory over the phantom, not certain he wanted to share it.

No, better to keep this to myself. The fewer people who know, the easier it will be to settle the score.

He withdrew back into the shadows and turned towards the National Academy of Music, where he was certain to find Mlle Delacorte. He would use the secret passageways to keep watch on her today and the next several after that, and learn her routine. Knowing her whereabouts would come in handy for what he had planned. Now that he knew Erik did not come to the opera house with her, his work would be easier.

There would be nothing to stop him. After all these years—all this time spent planning and hoping and fantasizing—satisfaction was almost in his grasp.

He would have his reckoning, and soon.

-0-0-0-


	45. Chapter 45

**To Be Loved**  
**By HDKingsbury & MadLizzy**

**Chapter 45**

_"People seldom see the halting and painful steps by which the most insignificant success is made."_ ~Anne Sullivan

-0-0-0-

When Aurelia returned home that evening, she was surprised to find her father in one of his rare jocular moods. She watched, perplexed, as he buzzed about the house, antic and full of mirth. He was going from room to room, straightening every picture, adjusting the lampshades, and giving scornful looks to rugs.

"These old things will never do," he mumbled. "It's out with them tomorrow morn." He moved about the room like a whirlwind.

"What's gotten into you?" she asked, exasperated. When her father was like this, getting straight answers out of him was like pulling hen's teeth.

"It's a matter of appearances," he said, as if it should be obvious to even the most simpleminded child. He paused, considering how to proceed. "I want to be sure that we are at our best at all times." His eyes took on a steely glint as he explained, "An old…friend…paid me a surprise visit today."

She hung her hat and cape on the hall tree, a quizzical look forming on her lovely face. As long as she could remember, she had never heard her father mention any friend other than Uncle Édouard. "And who might this be?" Suddenly, an image sprung into her mind. "Do you mean Mme Giry, the famous ballet mistress? I remember when she joined us for supper at that café on our first trip to Paris. Did I mention that she often comes to the conservatory with her protégé, looking for new talent?" Aurelia ducked her head and glanced at her father slyly. "She never fails to ask about you. She says that the two of you were business partners a long time ago."

Her father stood stock still, taking in this news. "What else has she told you?"

"I believe she likes you," she answered with a shrug. "I can't imagine why," she added impishly.

Erik stared at his daughter, his brow knit in consternation. "What do you mean by that?" A soft but gentle laugh was her response, and he felt his mood lighten. Aurelia had the same way about her as her mother once had, and was often able to tease him out of his dark moods much as Christine used to do.

"Madame is fascinated by you. It's obvious that she'd like to spend time with you." She put a hand on her father's forearm. "Would that be so terrible, Father? Wouldn't you enjoy spending time with a woman your own age, perhaps going out on the town and enjoying Paris the way it should be enjoyed?"

The mask dipped as Erik frowned. "She's a man-eater, that one. A veritable tigress." He shook his finger at his daughter. "You stay away from her, do you hear? She isn't fit company for my girl."

Arm in arm, they walked into the parlor and sat on the fainting couch in front of the large window that faced the vast expanse of the arrondissement below.

"I rarely see her," Aurelia explained. "I'm studying voice, not dance. All the girls talk about how handsome her young man is, so I can't help hearing about her. Now, let's talk about something more pleasant. Tell me more about this mysterious visitor of yours." With those words, she felt his muscles tense and noted how he shifted his weight restlessly. His forearm felt like steel beneath her fingertips, and she had a sneaking suspicion of what had set Erik off.

"Do you mean to tell me that Vincent came here?" Her cheeks flushed at the thought of her dashing new friend. The very thought of his sapphire blue eyes, his ruggedly handsome face framed by a wisp of dark blond hair falling upon his proud forehead, telegraphed a message of longing that resonated throughout her slender frame. "He came here? To see you? What about?"

Her father shook his head as he rested his arm behind her on the back of the sofa. "Not him. The other one. The boy! At least, he used to be a boy. He's all grown up now."

"Father, you really must be more specific."

"Not Vincent! His sire."

Aurelia drew back. "Why would he come here? What did he want?"

"Fishing expedition." When Aurelia sighed in vexation, he elaborated. "He asked us to lunch with his family tomorrow." Erik peered at her. "Your boy didn't mention it?"

"My boy?" She scowled. "Vincent isn't 'my' boy, and I doubt very much that he knows anything about this. At least, he didn't mention it when he…." She lowered her eyes, avoiding her father's gaze.

"When he brought you home?"

She nodded, feeling guilty for no reason. "There was nothing inappropriate. He simply showed up at the conservatory and waited until I was finished with my lessons." She smiled to herself, remembering how pleasant Vincent had been. "I enjoyed having company. We drove through the park, the very same park where you courted Mother, and I said to Vincent, 'This is what it must have been like for my parents, before they were married.' Isn't that a lovely thought, Father?"

Erik shook his head slowly. "There's nothing wrong with Vincent, as least as far as I know," he said very quietly. "His father and I go back a very long way. You know that."

"How would I? Please, tell me what you mean." She wiped a hand over her face. "I can't read your mind!"

"Vincent de Chagny is Raoul's son. Raoul…the man who…tried to poison your mother against me!" He stood abruptly, knocking over the piecrust table next to the sofa. "You've read your mother's journal. You must know all about him."

Aurelia tried in vain to catch the old-fashioned lamp her father insisted upon using. He did not yet trust the new electrical lighting that had been installed throughout the better neighborhoods of Paris, saying that kerosene had never let him down. He had brought the lamp with them from Gamla Uppsala; it was one that Christine had selected long ago, when they'd first arrived in Sweden. The young woman watched helplessly as it tumbled to the floor, spilling its contents onto the Aubusson rug.

"Mother did not dwell on unpleasantness," Aurelia whispered as the tang of lamp oil scented the air. "She was discreet." She knelt on the floor, setting the oil lamp upright before all of the oil was spilt. Erik knelt beside her, carelessly scooping up shards of glass.

"My darling girl, if you are to be friends with this young man, it is in your best interest to meet his family now, so that there are no misunderstandings. Many years ago, there was … bad blood between the vicomte and myself. The fact that de Chagny has invited us into his home—"

"—speaks well of him," she interrupted. She scrunched up her face most unbecomingly as she got off her knees and sat on the sofa, pensive, and waited patiently while Erik tossed the broken glass into a wastebasket. After five interminable minutes, Aurelia spoke.

"I know this is painful for you," she said with the same gentle tone that her father often used with her, "but I enjoy Vincent's company, and I would like to meet other people who knew my mother."

"No doubt, the vicomtesse will invite a few other onlookers." He sat down heavily beside her, as though resigning himself to his fate.

Aurelia bristled. "Not onlookers, Father. Guests. Friends. Acquaintances. Not everything is about you and the endless analysis of your shortcomings."

His sharp intake of breath took her aback. "I didn't mean it!" she said hastily. "What I should have said is, this is a moot point. No doubt, you told the vicomte that we are not interested in lunching with his family. Not now. Not ever." She pressed a dainty handkerchief to a tearful eye, and stole a peek at her father to make sure he was watching. "I know how such worries can send you into a tizzy. Well, you needn't bother. I won't see Vincent again. I understand why you would want me to discourage him, Father. Really I do."

"Nonsense," Erik said, his voice suddenly raw and raspy. Seeing his daughter in distress always made his throat tighten, and more than that, it reminded him that he needed to put her needs above his own. "I told him nothing of the sort. Tomorrow noon, we will enter the lion's den and have lunch with my old rival." He tucked a finger beneath her chin and tilted Aurelia's face so that she was looking directly at him. "I can think of nothing I'd enjoy more than showing off my daughter to the man who tried to steal your mother away from me."

She wrapped her arms around his waist and hugged him tight. "You are full of surprises tonight!"

"That I am, and I hope you'll like the next one. The butcher was selling rabbits today."

"Rabbits?"

"Hasenpfeffer was one of your mother's favorite dishes. Since we'll be eating lavishly tomorrow, I thought peasant fare would be appropriate tonight."

"You made it yourself?"

"Of course."

"You take such good care of me."

"I do my best. You deserve nothing less."

"In that case, you won't mind that I stopped at the milliner's today and bought a new hat." She returned to the foyer and produced a large round box that concealed a chic concoction in the latest fashion. It featured tall feathers that moved gracefully on currents of air, with impossibly large flowers made of silk adorning one side. It was perfect for the fall season.

He regarded it carefully before nodding his approval. As skirts had grown narrower, the brims of ladies' hats had grown wider, sometimes exceeding the width of the small train that followed on a lady's heels. Aurelia's hat was enormous, _à la mode_. "It will accentuate your features," he said stiffly. Sensing her dismay at his reserve, he continued. "Very fetching. It will look becoming with your hair and your eyes. Your young man will like it."

She blinked, exactly as her mother had when she was perplexed or surprised, and Erik's heart ached a little at the sight of it. "Come," he told her. "Supper will be ready soon."

As she put her hat away, Aurelia noticed another box tucked into the corner by the door. "What's in this?" she asked.

He grinned. "It's a little surprise for tomorrow. I'm told that there are children in our hosts' household. It never hurts to have a diversion, in case the conversation becomes stale."

She lifted the lid carefully and peered into the box. "A live rabbit? What are you planning to do with it?"

"Oh, nothing much. Just a little something up my sleeve, that's all."

-0-0-0-

"The lengths one will go for his child," Erik muttered as the cab pulled into the porte-cochère of the de Chagny townhouse. He studied the façade for a moment, appraising the Haussmannian architecture, trying to determine what it might reveal about those who dwelt within its stolid walls. Baron Haussmann, the civic planner whose modernization program transformed Paris into the city it was today: now there was an odd duck! The man had studied architecture, law, and music concurrently, the latter at the same conservatory Aurelia attended. Considering the breadth of his interests and the scope of his abilities, Erik concluded that Haussmann was a man after his own heart. But it was not Haussmann he would be meeting today; it was Raoul de Chagny—his erstwhile adversary and, in the end, reluctant ally at the trial. Best to stop musing on such things as architecture and concentrate upon the task at hand.

He stepped down to the curb and paid the driver, who tipped his hat and grinned at the sight of several extra coins in his hand. "Would you like me to wait, sir?" the driver asked hopefully.

"No," Erik responded. "I'll be a while." His own apartment wasn't too far away, and he knew he'd need the walk following a long, stuffy, and awkward luncheon with his old rival. He shook his head, still wondering what he'd gotten himself into.

The day was cool and clear, the crisp October morning having given way to a perfect Indian summer's afternoon. Blossoms of marigolds and chrysanthemums fell heavily from urns on either side of the front door, their pungent scent filling the air. It was a perfectly peaceful moment, until the roar of a motorcar's engine shattered the stillness.

Vincent pulled the roadster over to the curb and killed the engine before leaping over the door. He threw his goggles and hat into the jump seat along with his long leather motor coat, and hurried to the passenger side to open the door for Aurelia, and for a moment, it looked as if he might pick her up and carry her to the threshold of his family's home.

Erik stifled a groan. Society columns would have fodder for gossip if any member of the Fourth Estate should happen to notice the daughter of the celebrated author riding alone with the son of the Vicomte de Chagny. Tongues would wag. "Well, let them talk," he muttered to himself. "Better she should ride in comfort than further injure that ankle."

Aurelia waved to her father, but accepted Vincent's hand as she alit from the automobile. She was wearing her new hat, with a full-length coat covering her walking dress. The strawberry roan color perfectly complimented her auburn hair and brought out the bloom in her complexion. She was also wearing her mother's rose-colored jewelry ensemble, stones that Erik once thought worthless but which, over the years, became precious to both his daughter and himself because Christine had held them dear. Aurelia was very fond of them, often saying that when she wore them, she felt as though her mother were with her.

Erik glanced down at his attire and wondered if he had dressed appropriately. It wasn't often that he lunched in social circles. The rare times he dined away from his home, he took his meals in the dark corner of a café with his agent and friend, Édouard Bruguière. At least he had worn the double-breasted dark gray suit that Aurelia had laid out for him, complete with the high, stiff shirt collar and narrow teal necktie deftly Windsor-knotted in the latest fashion, even though it felt like a noose around his neck. His shirt cuffs bore double links made of precious metal, sporting stones the same color as his tie. Gloves matching the tan hue of his demi-mask were in one hand, along with the brim of a smart black, wide-brimmed fedora. His ever-present walking stick was in the other.

His daughter took a look at him and sighed a breathless greeting. "You look dashing!" She beamed at him adoringly, proud to acknowledge him as her own, and held out her hands to him. She chose to ignore the fact that he had worn the wide-brimmed fedora instead of the fashionable bowler that she had selected for him. He had his reasons.

He bent down and placed a light kiss on her cheek. "The shoes pinch my feet," he whispered for her ears alone. He would do anything for her, if it would make her proud of him—even behave himself while a guest in the home of Raoul de Chagny. He nodded at Vincent, and the two regarded one another the way men do when sizing up the competition and then shook hands briefly. "Thank you for providing transportation for my daughter. I'd have brought her myself if not for the appointment with my agent earlier this morning." He narrowed his eyes. "Of course, it wouldn't have been necessary if you hadn't run her down in the first place," he sniffed. "Ouch!" he added, when Aurelia pinched his elbow for the snide remark.

"Perhaps one day you will forgive me for that transgression," Vincent said lightly, apparently not sure how to take Erik. "Won't you come inside? My mother is beside herself. She has read all of your books, you know. She can hardly wait to introduce you to her friends."

Erik shot a sidelong glance at Aurelia. "Exactly how many people will be at this gathering?" he asked Vincent through gritted teeth.

"Just a few," the youth responded with a winning smile. When Erik did not seem satisfied, the young man searched for an answer. "Including the family—minus my aunts of course, since they are still in the country at this time of year—perhaps a dozen or so. It won't be a large gathering. Only maman's closest friends, I assure you." He waved his hand at the footman, knowing that the automobile would be moved to the garage in short order so that it would not block the entrance to the house. Then, he gave a shallow bow to the Delacortes and said, "Welcome to my home," gesturing for them to precede him up the steps.

As they approached the door, Erik became aware of a flutter of the curtains. They were being watched, of that he was certain. He was equally sure that the eyes upon him belonged to the youngest and most curious of Vincent's siblings. Fortunately, he was well prepared for Mlle Zoé.

The doors opened as if by magic. The household staff bustled about unobtrusively, disappearing into the woodwork when their immediate assistance was not required, yet remaining attentive to every need. Erik and Aurelia were divested of overcoats and other encumbrances tout de suite, and their young host quickly led them to the family rooms, past the formal areas reserved for other callers.

Aurelia and Erik glanced about as they crossed the vast foyer, their heels clicking on the marble floors. In spite of the grandeur of the architecture, it was obvious that this was no showplace. The de Chagnys had turned this house into a home. Decorations were elegant but simple, with pale colors providing a soothing palette that made one feel cool and calm. Informal portraits of their children hung on the walls, welcoming visitors and family alike, and Erik smiled to himself when he saw the fine wool rug beneath his feet; it could have been the same one in his own sitting room, if he hadn't known better.

In the entryway to the drawing room, Clementine Margarethe von Hohenburg de Ramburse Beauchamp de Chagny greeted her guests with genuine warmth. Here was a woman who refused to put on airs in order to impress others with her noble birth. Instead of haute couture, she was dressed in picnic attire—a simple white blouse with an Eton collar, a platinum pin in the Art Nouveau style clasping a pink cravat in place, and a gingham skirt to complete the ensemble. Her lush chestnut hair was coiffed in a magnificent bouffant style, with two simple tortoise shell combs holding all her tresses in place. "Welcome to our home," she said happily. "How beautiful you are," she told Aurelia, clasping the young woman's hands in her own. "You remind me of your mother. You know, I met her once, when she was studying voice. She had a _je ne sais quois_ about her that was utterly irresistible. Why, it was no wonder that every man who met her fell in love with her, including my own husband."

Erik shifted his weight uncomfortably. "My daughter is indeed very much like her mother," he said. The rasp to his voice hinted of his discomfort at speaking of Christine.

"What a pleasure it is to have you both here today," she said with a nod to Erik, sensing his unease. "I am quite the fan of yours, sir," she confided to him. "I've read all of your books, and trust that you won't keep me on tenterhooks awaiting the publication of the sequel to _Indus, the Unhappy Valley_. It is my favorite, you know."

Erik pulled a small, leather-bound book from his breast pocket. "I hoped you might say that," he said with a wry grin. "Vincent told me that you enjoyed reading my memoirs. This is, as they say, hot off the presses."

She took it greedily and opened it to the frontispiece, which Erik had autographed in blood red ink, as was his habit. "'In thanksgiving for your hospitality,'" she read aloud, running her fingers over his careful script. "'Erik Delacorte.'"

The lady of the house nearly jumped up and down with excitement. "Thank you! I can hardly wait to read it! I'll be the envy of all my friends," she told him. Then, she put her guests at ease by telling them that this would be no formal occasion. "We'll be having lunch on the terrace shortly. Raoul has unfortunately been detained at the office, but he should be here soon. The weather is simply too splendid to waste sitting around inside! Who knows how long it will be before we can enjoy dining _al fresco_ again?"

"Thank you for having us, m'lady," Aurelia said as soon as she could get a word in edgewise, with the slightest touch of temerity. "You have such a lovely home."

Clementine gave a self-deprecating laugh. "Call me Clementine, dear. All my friends do, and we are going to be great friends, aren't we? Come with me. I shall introduce you to everyone." She took Aurelia by the hand and led her into the room, which was dappled with midday sunlight that came through the stained glass clerestory windows. Their bright colors, scattered throughout the room, softened the atmosphere and added a touch of whimsy to the décor.

At the far end of the drawing room, behind the other guests, could be seen the double doors that opened onto a glass conservatory two stories tall. Even from this distance, it was easy to see this was a veritable tropical paradise, stocked with exotic plants gleaned from far off shores. Multi-colored orchids, majestic palm trees, exotic bromeliads, and feathery ferns lent the air a lush, earthy fragrance that spoke of jungles and high adventure, but Erik's attention was drawn immediately to the grand piano strategically placed in front of the doorway to the glass room. Music would have to wait, however, until introductions were made. That was when he spied a familiar face peering from a trio of seated ladies, beckoning to him. Wrinkles and the advance of age could not disguise her as memories of long-ago afternoons came back to him.

"Ah, the Duchess de Zurich," he said, bowing from the waist. "How good it is to see you again."

"It has been far too long, Monsieur Delacorte," she murmured pleasantly, extending her hand.

He made to kiss the back of it as gracefully as any gentleman, careful to keep his terrible lips from actually touching the lady's skin. He glanced around, and recognized two young matrons sitting on either side of her. "These must be your daughters. My, my. How time flies! You've both grown up while I was away. Let me see," he mused. "You must be Annabella," he said, nodding to the shorter one, "and you are Marcelline," he said to the other.

"You wrote a suite for us," Annabella offered quickly. "I've never forgiven you for leaving before we had a chance to play it for you. Mlle Christine…I mean, Mme Delacorte was most eager for us to learn it."

"It was regrettable. Do you remember the music?" Erik asked, eyeing the piano. "If so, we can rectify the mistake right now."

"We'd much rather hear you play," Marcelline ventured. "La Christine often said that you were the best musician in all of France."

"My wife was too generous with her praise," he replied. He faltered slightly, as memories of Christine threatened to spoil the cheery atmosphere.

Aurelia took note of her father's demeanor, and slipped her arm around his. "My mother wrote about you in her diary," she told the duchess's daughters. "I'm pleased to meet you at last."

"My dear Aurelia," the duchess replied. "We've heard so much about you from Vincent. We can see why he is captivated with you. May I say how pleased we are to meet you at long last? Ever since we learned from reading the society columns that you came to Paris to study, we have hoped for this day." The duchess leaned forward confidentially. "Your mother was as dear to me as my own children," she said tenderly. "We were devastated to learn of her passing. You're not only beautiful, but from what I hear, every bit as talented as your mother was. And here you are, following in her footsteps at conservatory. She would have been so proud of you. So proud."

"I never had the chance to know her," Aurelia offered with childlike innocence, "but I feel as though I am getting to know my mother through her friends. To see her as others did is truly a blessing. That is why it means so much to me to be here today, to meet all of you. It is…as though I am meeting her."

There were sympathetic murmurings among the women folk, and Vincent (who until now had been waiting silently in the background) stepped forward and sought to lighten the mood. "Monsieur, Aurelia—allow me to present my sisters." Upon hearing this cue, two young women stood up.

"Moerogis," Vincent said, drawing forth the eldest girl. "And Camille," he added, indicating the fifteen-year-old.

As the group chatted amiably, a gentle breeze wafted through the air and a serving maid came around offering tall glasses of iced strawberry lemonade to the de Chagnys and their guests. More pleasantries were exchanged and seats were taken, but three other members of the party had not yet made their presence known. A rustling from behind long velvet draperies gave away the spies.

"Zoé! Come out from there at once! Where are your manners, child?" Clementine fussed.

Red-faced, Zoé and her compatriots shuffled forth. Behind her were the Duchess of Zurich's granddaughters, following in her wake like little goslings on their first foray into deep water.

"My daughter and my niece are great friends with Zo," Marcelline explained, as the two girls curtsied and gave their names.

"I'm Denise," said the taller, braver one matter-of-factly. Emboldened by Zoé's leadership, she stared directly into Erik's eyes and grinned like a pixie.

"Mademoiselle Denise," Erik said, and bowed low. He was rewarded with a chorus of giggles from all three of the girls.

"My name is Fifine," said the smallest girl, who appeared to be about five years old. She still spoke with a babyish voice and ducked her head bashfully, which made Erik smile indulgently.

"Mademoiselle Josephine," Erik said, using her full name. He bowed deeply to her as well.

The youngest de Chagny stared at Erik with frank curiosity. He had ignored her up until this point, which did not set well with her. "My name is Zoé," she announced boldly. "Is it true that you were a sorcerer? My Papa says that you could make things appear and disappear. And that you could shoot fireballs from the palms of your hands!"

At that moment, Raoul joined the group, offering his apologies to all for being late before kissing his wife on the cheek. He greeted Erik with a quick handshake, shot a gleaming smile at Aurelia, and then turned his attention to his mischievous child.

"Zo, M. Delacorte has many talents. He did not come here to play tricks." A bead of perspiration broke out on Raoul's brow, and he pulled out a handkerchief to mop it from the side of his face. As he did, a flurry of rose petals fluttered softly to the ground. He sputtered and pointed at Erik accusingly. "How did you do that?"

"A magician never reveals his secrets, old sport," Erik said glibly. Then he turned to the little girl and inquired, "Mademoiselle, what is the first rule of working with a magician?"

Zoé grinned impishly. "Check up his sleeves!" she cried. She cast all temerity aside and grabbed Erik's hand, first looking up one sleeve and then the other. "There's nothing there!"

"Are you sure? Check again." He shook his arm, and much to the child's delight, a small pink nose appeared at his cuff. Another shake and the tip of a furry white ear burst forth.

"A rabbit!" Zoé cried. Gales of laughter followed as Erik lowered the bunny to the terrace, and watched it hippity-hop towards the carefully manicured lawn.

"You should catch it before it goes wild," Erik advised the girl, who ran after her new pet like a greyhound on the loose. Denise and Fifine followed hot on her heels.

"Thanks, Erik," Raoul said dryly, as he took a sip of lemonade. "The groundskeeper will be cursing your name all night."

"You have won a friend for life," Clementine said cheerfully, her eyes dancing with mirth. "You do realize that every time you visit, Zoé will be expecting a similar surprise."

Erik puzzled over the comment—considering the absurd notion that there would be other visits in the future—but came to attention when his hostess suggested they adjourn to the terrace to enjoy the brilliant fall day. White wicker furniture held lace-covered pillows in exactly the right places; it was altogether too inviting to resist.

The property was surprisingly large for the city, and supremely secure. A vine-covered stone wall surrounded it, making the house resemble a fortress or a castle of yore. The privacy was enhanced by brick walkways leading to arbors, hidden gardens, and a pond filled with exotic species of fish along with a few native specimens. Zoé was intent on catching one of the frogs to show to Erik, and would undoubtedly be required to change her wet clothes before being allowed to sit at the table. Fifine kept hold of the culprit rabbit, which since its apprehension had seemed content to loll in her arms like a living ragdoll.

Once the party had taken in the bucolic surroundings, the final guest made his appearance. Philippe-Georges-Marie, the Comte de Chagny, had arrived.

-0-0-0-


	46. Chapter 46

**To Be Loved**  
**By HDKingsbury & MadLizzy**  
February 20, 2011

**Chapter 46**

_Revenge is a confession of pain._ ~Latin proverb

-0-0-0-

In the park across the street, no one noticed the stranger lurking in the shadows between the bushes, a man whose soul was being slowly eaten away by fury and dreams of vengeance even as a tropical disease eats away at one's flesh. Ever since he had seen _him_ – the man with the half mask – the stranger had made it his business to keep track of the former Phantom's comings and goings, as well as those associated with him. Even that lovely, delicate daughter.

Seeing Erik Delacorte (what a farce of a name!) living the life of a respectable gentleman had brought back painful memories. Memories of years filled with pain and anguish. In his darkest hours, the stranger had dreamt of repaying _Monsieur le Fantôme_ for the damage his actions had wrought upon the lives of others. The Phantom and the bitch who had helped him.

_Make me the tool of Thy divine wrath, _the stranger had prayed, night after night. Then miraculously, after years of living a shadowy existence, his prayers had been answered. Perhaps there was a God after all! Yes, a God of vengeance, like the one in the Old Testament, raining fire and brimstone down upon the wicked. And who was more deserving of such retribution than Delacorte and those around him?

At that moment, a very fancy motor vehicle – one of the newest of the Peugeot line – pulled up in front of the townhouse. It was a custom-made four-seated double phaeton automobile, its convertible top down and brass fixtures glaring in the afternoon sun. The crest emblazoned upon the door announced that this was the arrival the Comte de Chagny.

As the chauffeur assisted his master from the vehicle, the stranger slinked back deeper into the shadows. Not that anybody would recognize him if they saw him, not after all these years, but there was no sense in tempting the Fates, either. An electric thrill of excitement coursed through his body, and the stranger released a ragged sigh. The feeling was almost erotic.

His mood had brightened considerably, causing him to laugh out loud. It was a sickening, rattling sound, like the breaking of brittle twigs. It was more cough than laugh and spoke of a body as diseased as its soul.

The thought of his own impending mortality sobered him with the realization that his time on earth was limited.

It was time to put his plans into action.

-0-0-0-

Erik eyed Philippe de Chagny's entrance with guarded anticipation; after all, he had even less in common with the comte than with Raoul. What few times he had seen Raoul's older brother had taken place years ago at the Opera House and later, in the courtroom during his trial. The comte did not seem to be surprised at seeing Erik among the guests, but it was better to take a wait-and-see approach.

Philippe, ever the dapper dresser, greeted his hostess and sister-in-law with a peck on her cheek and made his apologies for being late, explaining that the same snarl that had detained Raoul had kept him at the office later than expected. His slightly ruffled appearance betrayed the rush he had endured to arrive on time and he ran a hand through his thinning hair to smooth a stray lock back into place.

"Our middle East liaison has had a bit of difficulty with the natives," he explained.

"You have been in Afghanistan, I perceive," Erik deadpanned, unable to resist the urge to quote Arthur Conan Doyle's famous consulting detective and curious to see the nobleman's reaction.

Philippe gave a cool, polite nod in response, but Erik caught the twinkle in the other man's eyes. _So, the great man has a sense of humor. This is at least a little promising._

"Monsieur Delacorte, is it not? Perhaps I should have consulted you," said the comte. "As I recall, you had some dealings with the godless heathens at one time, did you not?"

Erik bristled. "Perhaps if you did not think of them as 'godless heathens' you might not have such difficulty conducting transactions with them."

Philippe was not to be taken aback, however, and slapped Erik on the back good naturedly, but with a little more force than he had intended. His nerves were showing. He wasn't accustomed to being this close to the Phantom. The proximity seemed to summon old memories—none of them necessarily pleasant. How many times had he been required to calm an upset Sorelli after the _fantôme _had pulled one of his stunts? Too many! "Well put," he said through tight lips, and looked for a way to mingle with the other guests. Upon seeing the lovely young woman on his nephew's arm, he excused himself and hastened to meet her.

A touch of the mask assured Erik that it was securely in place, in spite of being jostled by the overly enthusiastic comte. He watched intently and with a touch of amusement as Vincent introduced Philippe to his daughter, a fact not lost on Raoul. The vicomte sidled over to him and said quietly, "Thank you for coming today. Our situation may be awkward, but it is in our mutual interest to present a united front."

Erik nodded. "My daughter enjoys meeting people who knew her mother. This," he gestured, taking in the room of people, "is…good for her."

As if on cue, Clementine appeared at her husband's side to announce that luncheon was being served. Greeting the guests was a long table set with crisp white linens, laden with the fruits of a bountiful harvest. Breads made from pumpkins and other squashes, still warm from the oven, were waiting to be slathered with fresh butter. There were croissants stuffed with a salad made from lobster, while slices of cold chicken awaited mustards and other savory sauces. Crystal decanters filled with ice wine sweated in the sunlight, while epergnes filled with fall flowers and cascading bunches of grapes drew the last of the year's butterflies in for a final sip of nectar before they would settle into their long winter nap and transformation.

While his mask did not interfere with his ability to eat in public, Erik was more than a touch uncomfortable dining in the presence of strangers, but for his daughter's sake, he would suffer through this torture. Aurelia, who was seated next to him, must have sensed his discomfort for she touched her shoulder to his and smiled at him in such a way as to renew his confidence. Feeling more comfortable, he was careful to nibble the sumptuous food, and take small sips of the sweet wine from delicate crystal glasses, and seemed to enjoy the repast. When the meal came to an end, Erik had to agree that it was quite a pleasant event and when Raoul suggested that the men withdraw to the smoking room, he agreed in spite of his personal preference to avoid tobacco.

Once in sanctum of masculinity, Erik quickly discovered that the term "smoking room" was, in fact, quite a joke among the men, for none of them partook.

"I learned my lesson long ago," Philippe explained. "Clementine abhors the smell of tobacco, so I'll wait until I return home to indulge." He helped himself to a whisky and offered a glass to the others. Raoul accepted, but instead of taking a drink, he swirled the amber liquid around its glass and absent-mindedly watched the tiny whirlpool created by the liquid.

Erik considered Comte Philippe before asking, "Is…may I ask…how is La Sorelli? Do you still…see her?"

Philippe looked surprised, but then remembered that Delacorte would naturally remember his liaison with the prima ballerina that went back many years. "She is fine. As childlike as ever," he said confidentially. A little louder, he added, "She sends her regards, and asks that you tell your daughter that in her opinion, Mlle Daaé was the finest singer who ever graced the Paris stage."

"That's quite a compliment, coming from the finest classical ballet dancer in all of Europe." Erik stood up straighter. "She was a national treasure, you know. La Sorelli. No one could equal her professionalism, or her loyalty to her friends."

"She is the love of my life," Philippe said with surprising candor. "She is…all I ever wanted in a woman."

"Why did you never marry her?" Vincent asked his uncle, his father wincing at the naiveté of youth.

Philippe was momentarily taken about at his nephew's candor, but he shook his head ruefully. He might have answered that society would not allow it – not a nobleman and a dancer. He might have said that he was not the marrying kind. Or, he might have simply shrugged it off. Instead, he replied, "It was one of the greatest mistakes of my life, not marrying the woman I love. I was a stupid, impulsive young buck who thought that I had the world by the tail." He gave a weak, almost apologetic smile. "I have asked her to marry me, you know. Many times. She says it's too late. I supposed that, after all this time, it no longer matters. Besides," he said, putting his arm around Vincent's broad shoulder and punching his arm rather harder than he ought to have, "you are the future of this family. Your father has seen to that. We should be asking you when you plan to marry and settle down."

Vincent squirmed loose of his uncle's grip. "I haven't anything to offer a girl—nothing of my own, that is. Besides, I'm too young to marry."

"You're no younger than your mother and I were when we settled down," Raoul pointed out. He tossed back his whisky and swallowed it with one gulp.

"What do you plan to do, Vincent?" Erik inquired casually. His light tone did not convey the intensity that shone in his eyes.

"I've entered the Paris to Rouen race. In three days, I'll be the toast of the city. My father considers me something of a daredevil, you know. I enjoy my share of competition, but hate taking orders." That last remark obviously aimed at his father with a roguish grin."

Raoul stammered. "Why on earth did you enter that race? Your mother will be sick with worry."

Vincent reached for a whisky. "I've tried yachting and rowing, but neither provides the exhilaration of an automobile race. Besides, I hate the water and the purse is a respectable sum. Certainly nothing to sneer at. I plan to reinvest my winnings in another racecar." When his father hissed in reply, he added, "You of all people should understand. You took your chances on the high seas. For me, it's dry land and an air-cooled, V-twin engine that might break 100 miles per hour. How can I explain it to you," he added, while his father's face turned an unhealthy shade of red. "It's the thrill of the race that compels me. The wind in my hair, the feeling of power beyond your imagination…the speed…the possibility of victory!"

Raoul snapped. "Racing is dangerous. You could end up with your neck broken – or worse! If anything happens to you, it will destroy your mother. You know that yet you persist in being selfish! When will you ever grow up?" He smashed the glass in his hand down upon the marble tabletop with such force that it shattered.

The boy blinked his eyes, astonished by his father's outburst, particularly in front of Erik Delacorte. A range of emotions flashed across his face, from anger to humiliation to shame. Then, he forced a false smile and made himself become glib. "Well. I suppose we know how you really feel about me," he said with a hollow laugh. "Sorry to be such a disappointment, Old Man." He looked around the room rather helplessly. "I think I'll go join the women. After all, it seems that I am not yet adult enough to be part of this crowd."

Raoul groaned with frustration as he watched his son leave the room. "Forgive me," he said to the others. "I should not have spoken to him that way in front of you."

"It needed to be said," Philippe replied, hoping to console his brother. "He needs to take on some responsibility, to act his age."

"Maybe you are too hard on the boy," Erik interjected after a few awkward moments had passed. "After all, from what I recall when you were his age, your brother kept a loose hand on the reins and you turned out…all right."

Raoul couldn't help himself. He laughed at Erik's droll delivery, in spite of the lingering concern for his son. "I'm not a very good father," he said. "It's no wonder the boy runs to his _maman_ every time we have a disagreement. Clem is much better with him than I am. They…see eye to eye."

"I think you underestimate your son." Erik poured himself a glass of soda water and sipped it. "Give him time. He'll turn out well, if you don't push him too hard. Perhaps it would be wise not to let these…little things…the races, I mean…come between the two of you."

Raoul jabbed a finger in the air, pointing in the same direction that Vincent had departed. "Your daughter is his opposite. She's working hard on her future, building a career. Why, she's already famous from her stint at the Royal Swedish Opera."

A chill descended upon them. "Been checking up on her?" Erik asked pointedly.

"Of course not!" Raoul said quickly. "She's the talk of the town. You'd know that if you weren't such a hermit." He bit the corner of his lip before adding, "They say she's an even better singer than Christine. That she has _the voice of an angel_."

Erik's temper was simmering, but his response was measured, cold, and calculating. "It's true," he said simply. "Consider her parentage." He stared hard at the men. "God help anyone…_anyone_…who comes between the two of us." Erik set down his own glass so carefully that it did not make a sound when it touched the hard surface of the table. "Now, if you _gentlemen_ will excuse me, I believe I will follow young Vincent's lead and rejoin the ladies, too."

-0-0-0-

Within the hour, the Delacortes had returned to their apartment on the Rue de Rivoli. Erik had initially declined Vincent's offer to drive them home, professing that he did not wish to impose, but Vincent won Erik over by offering to let him drive the automobile. Erik proved to be an apt student, and within a few blocks of the house was shifting gears and applying the brakes as if he had been driving for months.

"Whoa!" Vincent roared, as they sped around a corner, shouting to be heard above the engine. "If you keep this up, you'll be entering the race too!"

"And I would win," Erik grinned. He hadn't had this much fun in years.

"Father!" Aurelia cried, using her operatic training to be heard. She was wedged in the rumble seat, and covered with a blanket from chin to toe to protect her from the wind. "That was our apartment! You passed it by!"

"I'm going around the block!" He had to yell to be heard over the noise of the engine. "You don't mind, do you?"

"Not at all!" Vincent called. "In fact, I'm rather enjoying this! I wish my father could see you. Maybe it would encourage him to learn to drive."

Erik winced, and slowed down. The thought of setting an example for Raoul was extremely unappealing to him. "Your father only wants the best for you. Perhaps you should try to see it his way. 'Aspiring racecar driver' isn't much of a career—at least not where your father is concerned."

He pulled around the corner and let the automobile screech to a stop in front of his apartment building before killing the engine. "Have you considered university? You might combine your interest in automobiles with engineering, design a new engine…or perhaps a self-starter for the motor." He looked at the palms of his hands; they still ached from turning the starting handle even though he had worn his gloves. "Yes. That would be my first improvement upon the design. I'm surprised the Germans haven't already come up with the idea."

"They're working on it," Vincent said. He helped Aurelia put away the lap blanket and then stood up on the front seat.

Erik watched Vincent jump out of the roadster and considered doing the same, but as he stood up, his fifty-something-year-old bones reminded him that he wasn't as young as he liked to believe. He opened the door and gingerly hauled himself onto the sidewalk, dusting himself off and already thinking about where to purchase a set of outerwear for him and for Aurelia to be used in future motorcar outings. The ride had not been all that smooth, in spite of the shock absorbers, and now that the thrill of the drive was over, his body was letting him know that it had felt every jolt.

Aurelia had already alit with her beau's assistance, but the two of them stood on the sidewalk gazing into each other's eyes while Vincent held the young woman's hand close to lips. It was enough to make a father sick to his stomach.

"That'll be enough of that, you two," Erik said gruffly.

"May I see you to your door?" Vincent asked, grinning charmingly and looking for all the world like a young Adonis.

"Nothing would please me more," Aurelia responded in honeyed tones.

The three of them stepped into the small elevator car that had recently been installed, and pressed the number for the penthouse suite. They watched between the ornate iron bars of the car as each floor passed, nodding to a few of their neighbors who chose to climb the stairs instead of riding in the newfangled contraption.

Much to their surprise, two stern-faced men stood waiting on either side of the door to their apartment. One was of medium build, slightly bow-legged, clean-shaven and dressed in a workingman's suit, while the other was a big, burly ape of a man with the stubble of a coarse beard defining the outline of his massive jaw. Erik's heart sank. He recognized policemen when he saw them.

When the lift came to a halt, he opened the noisy iron doors and asked nonchalantly, "May I help you?" The clang of iron and steel reminded him uncomfortably of prison bars.

"Monsieur Delacorte?" the man in the work suit, obviously the one in charge, asked in a deep, gravelly voice. His shorter height, broad chest, and stocky build made him resemble a bulldog, and his squashed face and pug nose only reinforced the image.

Erik nodded. "My daughter, Mlle. Delacorte, and her friend, Vincent," he said by way of introduction. No need to give the boy's last name. Not yet, anyway. There could be a dozen reasons for a policeman to visit him during the middle of the afternoon. A hundred reasons. But he could think of none at the moment.

"Detective Boisneuf, First District," the man replied, flashing a piece of identification before quickly returning it to his vest pocket. "May I talk to you a moment, in private?"

"See here," Vincent interjected. "What is this about? You have no cause to be bothering this good man."

The detective stared right through Vincent and turned woodenly towards Erik. "What I have to say is best said in a less public place." He waved a hand towards the elevator. Sound travelled down the staircase and the elevator shaft, and reverberated off the marble floors. Already, some of those same people they had acknowledged on their way up were peering up to see what was going on. This was a quiet neighborhood. The arrival of an automobile was enough to shatter its calm; these two men and their intimation of news best told in private only added to unease of the neighbors.

"Come in," Erik said, unlocking the door to his apartment. The detective stepped aside for Aurelia and Vincent, but preceded Erik inside while the other policeman remained at his post on the landing, immediately beside the front door.

"Aurelia," Erik said. "Would you be so kind as to put on the tea kettle? Our guests might enjoy a cup as well. Or perhaps you would make some Swedish coffee?"

The officer spoke up. "Tea would be fine, Mademoiselle," he said, making an effort to soften his characteristic growl. Unfortunately, it sounded unnatural—reminiscent of a death rattle.

"Vincent could help you," Erik suggested.

Vincent raised a brow. It was obvious Erik wanted them both out of the room, and when Vincent started to object, Aurelia took his arm and led him to the kitchen.

"We'll learn what this is all about soon enough," she whispered.

Vincent acquiesced. "What will my father say when he learns that his son and heir has been reduced to boiling water for tea?" he asked in an equally soft whisper, and the two of them headed to the kitchen. "But since I'd rather be alone with you, making tea will have to do."

Erik gestured for Detective Boisneuf to join him in the parlor, where they could talk in private.

Boisneuf did not sit down, but waited they were alone before continuing. "May I ask where you were this morning at approximately ten o'clock?" he asked, when he was satisfied that the two young people were out of earshot.

Erik bristled. "I was with my agent, Édouard Bruguière. After that, I went to lunch at the home of…a friend. My daughter and Vincent," he nodded towards the kitchen, "accompanied me. I have been with them and a number of other witnesses all afternoon—at the home of the Vicomte de Chagny." Although attending the luncheon had not been at the top of his list of things to do, Erik was beginning to think that perhaps it had been in his best interest to be there. Whatever this was about, it was serious enough to require an alibi, and who better to vouch for his presence than some of Parisian society's most notable personages? Erik kept his own face blank and watched the detective glare sharply in his direction, then scribble something into the small notebook he pulled out.

"Then you have corroborating witnesses," Boisneuf commented flatly. "You can provide us with names should we need to confirm what you say?"

Erik gave a sharp nod. "I have answered your question. Now answer mine: What is this all about?"

"A man was attacked this morning. His injuries appear…mortal."

"Sadly, people are attacked all the time. Why does this concern me?"

"Because this was pinned to his chest with a six-inch stiletto." The detective took a wrinkled piece of paper from his notebook and unfolded it slowly. Reddish-brown stains on the paper emitted an odor that Erik knew all too well.

"Blood," he said quietly, frowning. He glanced down the hallway, making sure that Aurelia was still some distance away. "Who was this man? Did he imply that I attacked him?"

"The victim is Monsieur Antoine Rabbelais. His throat has been slashed, and he is not expected to live more than a few hours, if he has not already succumbed." He took note of the blank look on Erik's face, the lack of recognition of the name. "Rumor has it that Rabbelais is the lover of an old acquaintance of yours, one Madam Giry."

The detective's explanation jogged a memory, and Erik remembered the last time he'd seen Mme Giry in the restaurant during the thunderstorm. The less information offered the better, he thought, deciding how much to acknowledge. Only offer what was absolutely necessary. "So? I have no contact with the woman, and haven't for many years. That is, other than bumping into her at a café last spring."

"Is that a fact?" The detective affected an air of disinterest. "We have already spoken with her, and she suggested that you might know something about this matter. Read this if you please, Monsieur Delacorte."

Erik stared at the bloodstained note in his hand, and tried to make out the writing. "The Angel sees. The Angel knows," he read aloud. "The Angel of Death will have his revenge." He blanched when he saw that it was signed _le Fantôme_. The paper crumpled between his long, bony fingers as his fists clenched. He was only dimly aware that Aurelia and Vincent were returning with the tea service. The fragrance of bergamot perfumed the air, but it brought Erik no pleasure.

He thrust the note back into the detective's hands and wiped his hands on his thighs. So, the detective no doubt knew who he was…and what he had been.

"I'll answer any questions you have down at the precinct, but not here. You will have my full cooperation." He shot a frantic look at the hallway. Aurelia was nearby. "For God's sake," he pleaded, "don't frighten my daughter. She has no part in this."

"No part in what?" Aurelia asked as she stepped across the threshold and into her father's worst nightmare. His past was catching up with him…and with her.

-0-0-0-


	47. Chapter 47

**To Be Loved**  
**By HDKingsbury & MadLizzy**

Chapter 47

_I am the punishment of God...If you had not committed great sins, God would not have sent a punishment like me upon you._ –Genghis Khan

-0-0-0-

The Stranger sat in a dilapidated room, in front of a dilapidated table. Rheumy eyes gazed at the newspaper before him.

The Stranger. That's how he thought of himself these days.

His original name no longer had any meaning. The person he had been died years ago, along with everything – and everyone – that had been important to him. If they saw him today, none of his former acquaintances would recognize him. But that was fine with the Stranger. Better to be thought long dead than to be seen as he was today, thanks to that farce of a man, Delacorte, and the bitch that'd helped him all those years ago. He sighed, and the sigh turned into a painful cough. His eyes clenched shut, waiting for the ache to pass. Even breathing was a chore of late.

Soon. Too soon, he would have to face whatever it was that Fate held in store for him. But not before…

He stopped his mind from going down that road. The pain eased and now that it was gone, he could think clearly again. He ran a shaking hand through his thinning hair and turned his attention back to the article he'd been reading. The words jumped out at him.

_Brutal slaying…depraved monster…heinous crime…the work of a sick mind…_

He wanted to laugh, but that would hurt too much so he satisfied himself with a small grin. The misguided idiots who called themselves detectives had no idea who they were dealing with. Delacorte used to pretend to be Mlle Daaé's Angel of Music, but the Stranger was going one better. He was now the Angel of Death. Death was, after all, much more powerful than music!

The idea that the death of the young man was causing such a stir delighted the Stranger more than he had anticipated. If he closed his eyes, he could still see the blood as it gushed from the man's neck like a fountain of red.

_Poor fool, he makes me laugh._

The Stranger almost giggled as the line from an old opera popped into his head! He remembered the puzzled look on the young man's face – What was his name? Rabbelais? – as he tried to explain that there was nothing personal in what was about to happen, that if there was anyone to blame for what was about to happen, it was _her_! But the man must have been a dullard not to have already figured this out. Rather than accept his fate with good grace, he had blathered and babbled and begged. No doubt, the world was a better place without him. The man was useless! He wasn't even that good a dancer.

The dancer's begging, it turned out, had been the wrong thing to do, because suddenly the Stranger felt empowered. That was when he realized this was not simply exacting revenge against those who had hurt him, but that he had been transformed. He had become the Angel of Death! Not just figuratively, but in fact!

Very carefully, he tore the article from the newspaper and put it away with the other articles about the murder. From the same drawer he pulled out a map of the city and studied it.

He smiled.

It felt good to be important again.

-0-0-0-

Although he knew there was no way he could be implicated in the attack upon Rabbelais, the thought of someone mimicking him left Erik uneasy, and the visit from the detective had brought back unpleasant memories. Sleep that night was fitful and when he did manage to fall asleep, his dreams were filled with nightmarish images from his past – the mob, imprisonment, the trial. More than once, he woke up in a cold sweat, his breathing fast and ragged. He forced himself to calm down, and ran a hand through his sparse hair, glad that at least he hadn't called out in his sleep and awakened Aurelia.

He had been lucky that Aurelia had been distracted by the presence of young Vincent, and had accepted her father's explanation that the police officer had come to consult him on a confidential matter of no consequence. The detective had played along with him, pretending that the famous writer was acting as an advisor in an unusual case, for which Erik would be forever in his debt.

The stress of the day's events left Erik pondering how much he missed Christine. The passage of time had not dulled his grief, nor diminished his need for her. If she were still here, she would be able to look at the situation and analyze it calmly, her demeanor matter-of-fact, and then she would explain in terms so simple a child could understand why he was being foolish to get himself worked up over this crime that didn't involve him.

"This has nothing to do with you," she would have told him. "The similarities in that note to your old Opera Ghost persona are superficial at best, no doubt a coincidence. Besides, you were my Angel of Music, never an Angel of Death. It is a sad thing for anyone to be cut down in the prime of life, but don't dwell upon this. And if this doesn't satisfy you, then why not visit Édouard?"

With that, Erik knew what he needed to do. When morning came, he would call upon Bruguière. With that thought, he was finally able to relax and catch some much needed and restful sleep.

-0-0-0-

"I can understand why you would find this disturbing," Bruguière said to Erik. A light knock on the door alerted them that Barthelbe, Bruguière's secretary, had arrived with a pot of hot coffee and a plate of pastries from the little shop down the street. Erik remembered the man as much younger, but then again nearly twenty years had passed since he'd first seen the man, and it was obvious how much he'd aged. Bruguière, who usually didn't have clients this early in his day, nodded his thanks to the secretary who had quickly gone out to fetch some breakfast when Erik had arrived. Barthelbe looked tired and a tad irritable, and Erik was relieved when the other man left the room and returned to his post.

"I know you are going to tell me that I am imagining this, but I can't help feeling as if this is directed at me," said Erik, nibbling disinterestedly on a filled tartlet.

"What makes you think this?"

"Obviously, Mme Giry thinks so. Why else would she have sent the police to see me? Last night, I sent her a note of condolences, asking if I might call upon her or help in any way." _After all, _he thought, _we had a very lucrative business relationship once._ However, it wouldn't do to relay this to Bruguière, who probably had suspected something along these lines from the start.

"This morning, I received her reply," said Erik. "She was very polite yet formal, informing me that she had no wish to see me…or anyone else, but that I should not take this personally."

Erik thought about the last time they'd met. Giry had appeared to be enjoying her retirement. It was obvious that her daughter's aristocratic marriage had finally given her the freedom to pursue a long-held dream of running a private ballet school. From what he understood, she became involved with Monsieur Rabbelais because he had done just that and had been in search of a ballet mistress of Madame's stature, seeking her advice on his new endeavor. Remembering the expression on the young man's face that night at the café, Erik was sure Rabbelais had looked up to her with a blend of awe and hero worship. However, it appeared that fate was not going to be kind to Mme Giry. No wonder the woman refused to see anyone. Erik felt bad for his former business partner and had long suspected her feelings toward him were at one time been more than those of a mere colleague. A thought niggled at the back of his mind, reminding him of his ingratitude towards her, and he found himself regretting the fact that he had never made an effort to repay her many past kindnesses.

"The poor woman is surely devastated," said Bruguière, echoing Erik's concerns. "I understand that she's the one who found Monsieur Rabbelais. From what I read in the police report, it can't have been a pretty sight. So much blood. It's amazing the victim lasted as long as he did."

Erik let out a heavy sigh.

"Is there anything else you're not telling me?" asked the attorney, attune to his friend's state of mind. Twenty years may have passed, but he knew that Erik's past still haunted him, particularly at times of stress.

"Such as?" Erik said, trying to present a nonchalant attitude that Bruguière wasn't buying.

"Such as…why you think this is directed at you personally. The phrase 'Angel of Death' is not unique, even among opera ghosts. I don't know if you ever read the Bible, but if you did, you may recall that the Lord sent the Angel of Death to visit the land of Egypt, to convince Pharaoh to let the Israelites go."

"It's also a phrase I used in my so-called memoirs." Erik left out his having also used it to describe himself when he had been in the service of the Shah of Persia so many years ago, but he had been a younger, cockier man in those days.

"Is that all?"

Erik grimaced. "Nothing I can point to specifically, but I cannot shake this feeling that I am being watched. For days now, I've felt it. Yet when I look around, I see nothing. Just people. Ordinary people." However, even ordinary looking people could sometimes be…un-ordinary. "I know," he said with a groan. "You're right. I'm overreacting."

Bruguière refilled their coffee cups. "As I said, quite understandable, considering what you've endured in the past, but try not to dwell upon this. The police have nothing on you. As you said, you have an airtight alibi. I suspect that when this case is solved, we will find that what we have is a random act committed by a demented person who perhaps read your memoirs and has been inspired by them to live out some sick fantasy. A copycat, as it were."

"True, but what if the attack on Rabbelais isn't some random act, but something more diabolical? What if…what if the person who did this is trying to get at me?"

"But you have no connection with Rabbelais, only Mme Giry, poor woman."

And with that remark, an unsettling notion came to Erik. "Maybe this is a person with a grudge, either real or imagined, against all of us from the old Opera Populaire?"

"Interesting, but who, and why?" Bruguière signaled for Barthelbe using the oak and brass intercommunicating telephone that sat on his desk. "Would you bring me the file from Monsieur Delacorte's case?" he asked when the secretary popped in. "You'll find it in the records from…"

"From 1881. Yes, I know," answered the secretary, his voice bearing a slight condescending tone. A few seconds later he returned, a thick bound folder in hand. "Here you are, sir. I'm sure you'll find everything in order." And out the door he went again, scurrying back to his post as if in fear something would happen in the outer room if he weren't there to keep an eye on things.

Bruguière thumbed through the papers and pulled out some of his notes from the trial, and the two of them went over the names of the various witnesses. About half of them, like Fire Lieutenant Papin, were deceased, while several others had moved out of the country in the ensuing years.

"I understand that La Carlotta and Signor Piangi married shortly after you and Christine left for Sweden," explained Bruguière with a chuckle. "They live in Florence these days, where I hear they spend their days making beautiful music together."

"I presume you are referring to what they do on the stage?" Erik asked, his eyebrow arching.

"But of course. What else would I be referring to?" the attorney returned with a smirk.

"Never mind. I don't think I want to know."

"Ah, let's see. There was also Mlle Marguerite Giry, but she's married now and living in the lap of luxury, but you already knew about her."

Erik nodded. Then an idea occurred to him. "What about Christine's old landlady. What was her name? Moreau?"

Bruguière shook his head. "The dear lady passed away many years ago."

Erik frowned. This wasn't helping. "And the managers? I remember your telling me that Monsieur Andre committed suicide rather than face the scandal of a trial."

"And Monsieur Firmin is serving a life sentence for his part in the embezzlement scheme he and Andre were involved in. Apparently, the government does not take kindly to being bilked out of so much money, and decided to make an example of him. I believe he was sent to Devil's Island, poor fool. As good as a death sentence."

Erik rested his elbow on the desk, and propped his forehead against his palm, perplexed. None of this made any sense. He might as well give up trying to figure it out. "Well, I'm sorry to have bothered you," he said as he rose from his seat.

The two men shook hands, and Erik took his leave. Once outside, he looked around. No lurkers could be seen. Nothing and no one looked out of the ordinary. No shady characters slinked in the shadows; yet despite this, Erik could not shake the feeling that he was being watched.

-0-0-0-

Aurelia glanced about. Her Uncle Édouard's office might as well have been a world away from the prestigious Conservatoire National, so different was the atmosphere. Whereas Uncle Édouard's suite had always felt welcoming and comfortable to her, the highly competitive environment at the conservatory made for tension and discord, and not for the first time had she heard whispers behind her back alleging that she was trading on her mother's reputation and her father's fame rather than her own talent.

She should have known better than to use her real name. It might not have caused a sensation at the Royal Swedish Opera, but here in Paris, the name Delacorte was instantly recognizable. Many were the times she had berated herself for not using a stage name, but that would have crushed her father. He was proud of her, happy that his child—his and Christine's child—had chosen to study at the same school her mother had attended, and had been slightly crushed when Aurelia had broached the subject.

"Aren't you proud of your name?" he had asked her, with all the sadness of the world.

"Of course I am," she had responded. "It was a foolish suggestion on my part." She had clasped his hand and kissed the palm of it before cradling her cheek in its warmth. Hindsight was useless and second chances rare. She had made her choice, and now she must live with it.

At this moment, Aurelia's stomach was in knots. She had been practicing her vocalizations since 9:30 in the morning, and welcomed the break for lunch. While the other singers were enjoying a light meal, she took advantage of the opportunity to seize a moment alone, doing what she enjoyed most of all.

She couldn't have known that her mother had developed the same habit years ago when she was a student at the conservatoire, but as Aurelia wandered through the vast corridors and darkened hallways of the building, she greeted everyone she encountered with a warm and friendly smile, bestowing words of praise for their accomplishments. Backstage with the working people, she felt at home. If the snooty students and teachers didn't like her, the workmen and women did. They welcomed her. Indeed, they eagerly anticipated her brief visits. They inquired after her health, clucked over the slight limp that betrayed her recent injury, and wished her well. She knew them all by name, and always made them feel appreciated. In return, they made her feel more real, as though she had both feet on the ground. She was more than a lofty artist to them, more than a prima donna in training. She was a breath of fresh air.

Wandering aimlessly, she soon left the hustle and bustle of the stage behind her, and without realizing it, she came to a part of the vast complex that she had never before explored. The corridors were well lit, though, and she continued without a thought in her head of any possible disadvantage to her journey into the labyrinthine undergrounds of the conservatoire. Soon, she had left behind all traces of humanity. It was the way she liked it: quiet, still, and dark. Shadows surrounded her in a comforting embrace.

The whiff of an acrid odor filled the air as she turned a corner, and the harsh glare emitted from one of the newly installed electric lights poured out of a room at the end of the hallway, drawing her closer.

"Who's there?" called a man.

"It's only me. Aurelia Delacorte," she responded, stepping closer to the doorway. "May I come in?"

A middle-aged man of medium build sat at a workbench surrounded by pipes and chemicals of various colors and smells. He cocked his head and peered out from long ginger locks that framed his face, staring at her curiously. "Students aren't allowed down here. Shouldn't you be in class?" His eyebrows shot up as recognition set in. "Delacorte, did you say?"

A heavy sigh told it best. She didn't really want to go back. "I have a few minutes more before rehearsals." She came closer, fascinated by the materials laid out on the workbench. "What are you doing?"

A broad grin stretched across his face. "I'm the pyrotechnician for all the performances, master of special effects," he said proudly. "The fire master."

"Very impressive," she replied, inclining her head in a gesture of respect. "Then you're the one who made the fireworks for the production of Gluck's _Orfeo ed Euridice. _My father called it, 'spectacular.' He said, 'It's good to know that someone else recognizes that opera isn't only about vocal fireworks, but about putting on a good show.'"

The grin turned into a smirk. "The great opera ghost himself said that? I'm flattered."

Aurelia bristled. "He's not an opera ghost. He's a writer, and a very good one."

"And he's very good at reinventing himself."

She huffed and turned on her heel, ready to trounce back to the theater and resume her lessons.

"Oh, don't get defensive. I didn't mean to insult him. Please stay." Emboldened by her hesitation, he continued. "I've seen your father here a few times, waiting to meet you when your lessons were over. I recognized him right away, even though it has been at least twenty years since I met him. He hasn't changed much, though his hair has gone gray." Obviously, he had no way of knowing that Erik's graying hair was thanks to the wig he always wore. He had changed it over the years, aging it as he grew older. The fire master paused momentarily, conjuring up a memory from long ago. "One never forgets a man like your father. It was in Lille that we met, quite by chance. You might say he saved my life."

Aurelia glanced over her shoulder at the man, her eyebrows knit with curiosity. "Who are you?"

"My name is Jabes. When I was only fourteen, your father caught me picking pockets, and instead of turning me over to the police, he gave me a ticket to Paris and the name of someone who could help me get an honest job. One Mme Giry. I might have starved without his help, or worse, ended up in prison. Either way, I hardly had a future."

"I read about you in my mother's diary," she said breathlessly. "She saw what my father did. He taught you some magic tricks, didn't he?"

Jabes nodded. He stood and stretched his slender frame, working the kinks out of his back from long hours bent over his bench. He was proud of his accomplishments, and it showed. "I used those tricks to earn a living, until I got work here as the fire master's assistant. Those tricks your old man taught me helped me get a foot in the door as a special effects designer. Been working here ever since." A thought seemed to cross his mind. "You know, when I arrived, we found barrels and barrels of gunpowder stored below. Enough to blow nearly a quarter of the city to smithereens."

"Goodness!"

"Must have been left behind during the Communard. We had to evacuate the whole place until we got it out of the building."

"This isn't gunpowder?" she asked, waving her hand at the contents of the canisters on the table.

"It's cordite. Much safer. Been around for nearly twenty years. Works just as well, but less likely to cause trouble."

She let out a breath she had been holding. "That's reassuring. I'd hate to think that while we are upstairs singing, we might at any moment end up with the angels in heaven."

A gentle breeze stirred the air, pushing some of the chemical dust across the table. "Drafty old place," Jabes muttered.

"A door must be open somewhere," Aurelia commented. "But at least the odor of the chemicals is less noticeable." She cocked her head to the side. "Do you smell that? It smells like flowers." She turned pensive, and wrapped her arms around herself as she cast about for the source of the fragrance. "Irises, I think. It makes me think of springtime and sunshine…home…and happiness." She grew still, and wondered aloud. "Where could that breeze be coming from?"

"It's mid-October," he said quietly. "It can't be flowers. Maybe one of the women in the dressing rooms dropped a bottle of perfume."

"Perhaps," Aurelia said softly. "You must be right. Well, I'm happy to have made your acquaintance, Jabes. One day, could you come to our apartment and call upon my father? I'm certain he'd enjoy seeing you again, after all these years."

"I'd be honored. And may I say, Mlle Aurelia, that the pleasure is all mine. It does me good to know that the Phantom…I mean, that a good man like your father has such a lovely daughter. You know, I have a daughter, too. A little girl, five years old. My wife's expecting another any day now."

"Congratulations to you both. I hope to meet your family soon, but for now, I must be returning. It's nearly time for rehearsal to resume, and the maestro will be missing me." She hurried back to the practice rooms as quickly as she could, filled with a renewed sense of purpose and reinvigorated with the desire to sing. She could hardly wait to see her father tonight and tell him about meeting Jabes, and about how well the young man had turned out, thanks to her father's intervention long ago. With much fodder for speculation, Aurelia's vivid imagination wandered all throughout rehearsal. Her father had included a character similar to Jabes in one of his memoirs. If what the young man had told her were true, perhaps all those fantastical stories her father wrote had a kernel of truth in them as well. Her father, she realized, was a far more complex man than she had ever suspected.

-0-0-0-

A week passed, during which time Aurelia told her father about meeting the ginger-topped pyrotechnician. Erik had protested meeting Jabes and his family, and steadfastly denied any responsibility whatsoever for the young man's good fortune. "What he has accomplished, he earned on his own," Erik had gruffly stated, but Aurelia knew better.

"Don't you know that little girls love their papas," she had chastened him. "Don't spoil my illusions. You're my father and I love you, no matter what you say."

This evening, Erik paced the floor of the apartment, wondering how she'd feel when he told her what he had to say once she got home from the _conservatoire_. She had scarcely made it through the door and removed her hat, gloves, and coat when Erik called to her.

"Aurelia? Come into the parlor. We must talk." His stern tone told her that he meant business.

She crossed the floor, light-footed, and pecked him on the cheek. "What's wrong?" she asked, sitting on the sofa in front of where he stood.

He held his hands behind his back and leaned over her. "It's that boy, Vincent. Did you know he was planning to call on me today?"

She blinked her eyes innocently. "Vincent? Whatever did he want?"

Erik squinted at her and bit off his words. "You know very well what he wanted. He asked my permission to call on you. Formally. To take you out. To dinner and plays and such. Imagine!"

Aurelia smiled sweetly. "How kind of him. I think I should like that very much."

"Yes, I suspect you would!" He stared down his nose at her. "He said that you had already agreed to see him." He growled for good measure. "Sheer effrontery!"

"I am not affronted," she said casually. "Father, I've known him for more than a month, and we enjoy each other's company. You have nothing to fear. Neither of us is looking for a permanent relationship."

A yelp of surprise and indignation erupted. "That is exactly what I am worried about! Oh, don't misunderstand me. Vincent de Chagny isn't worthy of you. It's…well…it's the impression that it will make. What will people say if my daughter, Aurelia Daaé Delacorte, is seen sporting about town with the son of Raoul de Chagny?"

"That we make a very handsome couple?" she asked meekly.

"There will be talk, mark my words. Gossip columns! Busybodies! The press!"

"Father, please don't work yourself up into a lather. There is nothing to fear."

"Your mother would have known what I am talking about!" He pointed a finger at the young woman before him, who resisted the urge to shrink away. "Read her diary, and you'll see what I mean. Must I spell it out for you?"

She stared at the carpet, refusing to answer.

He hesitated briefly. "All right! Here it is. Men of de Chagny's class expect certain things of a woman who is not of their own class. Certain things that are best left unsaid. And they certainly do not involve 'a permanent relationship.' One need look only as far as the Comte de Chagny and his…and La Sorelli to know what I mean."

"Did Vincent tell you this?" she whispered. "Is that what he intends?"

Erik sputtered. "He didn't say so, not in so many words, but I believe that is what he intends."

"And I believe you are mistaken."

By now, he was nearly apoplectic with injury to his paternal pride. "You dare to defy me?"

"I've never defied you in anything, Father. I simply prefer to make my own friends—and my own mistakes, if necessary—and I would hope that you have enough faith in my judgment to have confidence in me." Her lower lip trembled as she spoke, which gave him pause.

"It's not _your_ judgment I question," he said quietly. The ire melted away, and standing before her was a loving, concerned father. He held his hands out to her, and when she took them, he pulled her to her feet and into his embrace. "I love you, Aurelia," he said tenderly, kissing the side of her head. "You're all I have. I couldn't bear to see you hurt." He rested the masked side of his face on the top of her head and closed his eyes. "Perhaps I should insist on a chaperone, as the demmed English do. Sometimes we French, with our liberal ways, are too broad-minded for our own good."

She hugged him tightly. "Don't worry about me. I have no intentions of being hurt, or of being taken advantage of. And for what it's worth, I don't think Vincent has any intention of doing such a thing. Otherwise, he'd never have come to you."

"Answer me one question. If I say no to this young man, will you respect my decision?"

She smiled demurely. "He asked me if I would be willing to see him, and I told him that if he could gain your approval, I'd be delighted to have supper with him." Quickly, she added, "So you see, Father, it is entirely in your hands."

"I rather doubt that it is that simple," he groused.

Aurelia and Vincent began their courtship that very evening.

-0-0-0-


	48. Chapter 48

To Be Loved  
By HDKingsbury & MadLizzy

Chapter 48  
March 7, 2010

_Love is like a dew that falls on both nettles and lilies_. ~Swedish Proverb

The doorbell rang. Erik had been sitting in his favorite chair by the fireplace, reading a book as he waited for the person on the other side of the door to arrive. Setting aside the book, he glanced up at the mantle clock. Eight o'clock sharp. He made a mental note of this. Punctuality. At least that was one factor in the young whelp's favor.

He rose from the chair and gave his jacket a tug to smooth out any wrinkles. It wouldn't do to look like a rumpled old man in front of de Chagny's boy. Making sure his hair was properly smoothed back and that his mask properly in place, he answered the door. As expected, it was Vincent de Chagny, his face hidden behind a vast bouquet of cattleya orchids.

"Yes?" said Erik.

Vincent lowered the flowers and removed his top hat in anticipation of the customary invitation of welcome. When Erik did nothing, he silently fumed in annoyance at being made to stand in the hallway but made certain he kept his smile firmly plastered in place.

"I am here for your daughter, sir," he replied obsequiously. "Perhaps you forget that I was taking her out this evening?"

"My memory is perfectly fine," Erik answered. Still he didn't move.

"May I come in?"

Erik looked around as if he'd just noticed that the boy hadn't already done so. "Of course," he said, changing his demeanor from brusque to ingratiating. Truth was he had been testing the lad, seeing how he would react to small obstacles – like an over-protective father. Once they were in the main room, they each took a seat while awaiting Aurelia's entrance.

Erik spent the next several moments giving Vincent a quick inspection. He noted favorably that the young man was nattily dressed in a perfectly tailored tuxedo that fitted his form to a tee. At his wrists, cuff links winked merrily in the lamplight. Erik saw that they were made of sapphires set in platinum, and that they matched the young man's eyes. _Nice touch_, he thought. _Then again, he's the son of one of the wealthiest families in France. Why shouldn't he be dressed to the nines? _

"My daughter is still getting ready," he said, finally breaking the silence that had fallen over the room.

The younger man gave a knowing nod, holding the bouquet with what looked like a death grip. "Young ladies like to look their best," said Vincent, tense under the silent scrutiny, which took him by surprise. He had never backed down from anyone – not his father, nor his uncle. Why did this man who wrote romantic twaddle upset him so? Could the reason be as simple as that Erik Delacorte was Aurelia's father and that he wanted to make a favorable impression?

"You have much experience in knowing what young ladies like?" Erik asked, suggestively.

Vincent gave a good-natured laugh, suddenly feeling himself on safer ground. "But of course, Monsieur Delacorte. I have three sisters, as you may recall. I have spent more than my share of time waiting upon young ladies who are preparing themselves so that they look their best."

Erik relented and offered up a chuckle. The boy had responded well. "My apologies for making it sound as if I were suggesting otherwise. She is, after all, my daughter. On a different note, might I suggest you loosen your hold on those poor flowers before you strangle them?"

Vincent looked at the hand holding the bouquet, and was chagrined to see that his knuckles were white. "I guess you could say I'm a little nervous, Monsieur Delacorte."

Erik quirked an eyebrow. "You, nervous? What reason have you to be nervous?"

"It's not every day that I am permitted the honor of escorting the loveliest young woman in all of Paris out on a date."

"Are you trying to butter me up?"

"Me, sir? No, sir. Never!"

This time both men laughed, and at that very moment Aurelia entered the room.

"Thank goodness," she sighed with obvious relief. "I was worried I'd find the two of you at each other's throats."

Both men rose and stared, taking in the beauty that was Aurelia Delacorte. This was no parvenue before them, but a young woman possessing her own kind of classic beauty. Her wavy auburn hair was stylishly done up in a way that emphasized the graceful line of her neck, and was accented with tiny pink silk roses. On her gown were matching silk flowers decorating the low neckline. The pale blue, embroidered gauze gown brought out the color of her eyes. A matching garland swirled around the skirt below the knees, angled in such a way that the flowers dipped towards the hem in the back. Many of the petals glittered with artificial dewdrops.

The caplet sleeves of her gown were complemented by white elbow-length glacé kid gloves, and on her feet were patent-leather slippers sporting tiny buckles adorned with more jewels that caught the light as she walked, teasing the onlooker with the tantalizing promise of a glimpse of an ankle or (heaven forefend) a bit of calf. As Aurelia moved to and fro, modestly modeling her dress, Vincent admitted to himself that he enjoyed watching the way she moved and glimmered in the light.

Quite simply, she took their breath away. Even her father could hardly believe this vision of loveliness was his little girl, while Vincent could scarcely believe it was his good fortune to be escorting her to supper this evening. To her delight, both of them said as much to her, causing her to blush becomingly.

"You absolutely sparkle!" exclaimed Vincent.

"Do you like the way the silk flowers glitter?" asked Aurelia. "They're adorned with the new Swarovski crystals everyone's talking about. A new shop opened a few blocks from here, and when I saw this dress in the window, I knew I just had to have it!"

"They dazzle the eye, just as you do."

He took a step forward and presented her with the bouquet. Aurelia accepted the orchids, and noticed that in the center there was a nosegay of fragrant white roses that looked every bit as beautiful as those found in the Tuileries Garden, along with yellow oncidia orchids that bounced when they moved, resembling a cluster of tiny Southern belles wearing ball gowns with full skirts that flared when they danced.

"These are for you," he said, "though they hardly do you justice."

Aurelia inhaled the perfume of the roses. "You are too kind, sir, and far too modest. They're beautiful! Are they from your mother's hothouse? It's too late in the year for roses to be blooming otherwise!"

"Naturally," he replied, grinning like a schoolboy.

She handed the bouquet to her father, and tucked the nosegay into the ribbon that accentuated the waist of her dress. "Will you hold these while I got get a vase?"

Waiting until she was well away from the two of them, Erik laid down the law. "I may be an over-protective father, young man, but she is all I have. Not only do I expect you to return her safely to her home at a reasonable hour, but with her reputation intact." He glowered and stormed around the apartment, summoning the glory of the erstwhile Phantom into every word and gesture, doing his best to make a lasting impression on the young man.

Vincent, on his part, responded with suitable deference. "I would not dream of having it any other way, Monsieur. I treasure your daughter every bit as much as you do."

"I doubt that, since you hardly know each other."

"It's not the length of time, sir, but the quality of it that is important. Believe me; you can trust your daughter to my care."

Aurelia stood outside the room and watched the performance, enjoying the snort her father gave Vincent before alerting them both that she'd returned. "Please, Father. You mustn't fuss so. You'll work yourself into an apoplexy!" She stepped to his side and gave him a peck on the cheek. Relieving him of the flowers, she placed them in a crystal vase and set them on the mantle. When she turned her attention to Vincent, he was pleased to see that she had plucked a couple of the flowers from the nosegay and had them pinned onto her dress. "Are we ready to go?" she asked, eager for them to be on their way. She'd never been on a real date before, and she was determined to make this a night to remember!

Growling at the young man to step aside, Erik insisted on helping his daughter into her flowing white winter cloak. Once again, Vincent had to admire her choice in attire, and appreciated the way the fabric draped her figure, showing off her curves with every step. Matching snow-white fur peaked out from the hood and framed her pretty face charmingly.

"There," said Erik as he tied the cloak in place. He knew better than to lift the hood over her carefully arranged locks. He took a step back and gave her one last, long look. Tonight more than ever before, with her hair coifed and curled, she reminded him of Christine, and he wanted to burn this image into his brain.

When he thought Vincent wasn't looking, he slipped several bank notes into her hand. "Mad money,"  
he whispered. She gave her father a puzzled look before tucking the bills into her evening bag. "In case…you know…you get mad at Monsieur de Chagny and have to take a cab home."

"There won't be any trouble," she said, giving him a reassuring pat on the arm. "But thank you just the same." She gave him another peck on the cheek, then took Vincent's proffered arm and headed out the door.

By the time they left the apartment, Vincent was nearly quaking in his boots—or so it felt. "Think I impressed the old man?" he asked as he pressed the call button for the lift. The elevator responded with a series of clanks and groans loud enough to wake the dead.

"He's not an 'old man,' and I'd thank you not to speak of him that way," Aurelia snapped.

"You are right, of course. I stand corrected. That was rather rude of me to say, but I have a bad habit of being a little flippant when I'm nervous." Vincent pulled at his cuff. "Chilly out tonight, eh?"

Aurelia beamed at him and looped her arm through his as she stepped into the elevator. She knew he was talking of more important matters than the weather. "Oh, I expect it will warm up, once we're under way. Where are we going tonight?"

Vincent bowed. "Wherever your heart desires. All of Paris is at your beck and call."

"I've never been to a cabaret," she suggested.

"A cabaret? Really? Is there one in particular you wish to see?"

"I don't know of any. Oh, please, Vincent, don't look at me as if I've lost my mind. I've heard so much about them, and they sound like great fun. One in Montmartre will do. Any one."

"What?" he asked, astonished. "Are you sure?" He tugged at his collar with two fingers. He'd have to remember not to do up the tie so tight the next time. "Montmartre has a…a reputation. An unsavory one at that." He leaned closer and muttered, "Your father will kill me."

She snickered. "What my father doesn't know won't hurt him."

"Easy for you to say. Remember, I'm the one who had to swear on his eternal soul that I would be protecting you."

She gave him an impish grin. "Then we'll have to make sure he doesn't find out."

His face lit up with devilment. "Well, if Montmartre is what you want, Montmartre is where we'll go."

The elevator settled on the ground floor, and Vincent opened the ornate brass doors and held them while Aurelia passed through. Arm in arm, they crossed the marble foyer and descended the steps that led to the street. Waiting curbside was one of the de Chagny automobiles, a coupé with front and back seats, crest-emblazoned doors, and a uniformed chauffeur who stood at attention while holding the door open for the couple. Vincent helped Aurelia into the vehicle and glanced upwards, certain that Erik Delacorte was watching them from the window of his penthouse suite.

"Le Moulin Rouge," he said quietly to the driver, hoping that Aurelia's father did not have supernatural hearing, as some fathers were rumored to have.

-0-0-0-

Montmartre was notoriously bohemian, filled with cabarets and lowlifes of every imaginable ilk. Grifters, aspiring artists, chorus girls and can-can dancers circulated amongst the various establishments, rubbing elbows with gentlemen who had more money than sense. It was a libertine setting that let loose the imagination and spawned fine art in gutters that reeked of sin. Men and women of all classes flocked there for a glimpse of "artistic expression" that could take many forms. The most famous intellectuals and artists in Europe were patrons, and it was this reputation for creativity that attracted Aurelia.

What she had not imagined was the tawdry origin of the place. Le Moulin Rouge, now a fashionable destination for aristocratic Parisians, had not all that long ago been little more than a high-class brothel, its sensational acts were designed to be blatantly risqué and provocative. Aurelia found herself face-to-face with this startling reality the moment their motorcar entered the Montmartre, when the neighborhood declined noticeably.

"A windmill?" she asked, inquiring about the distinctive red architectural feature atop the entrance to the establishment.

"Ah, that's the famous Red Mill," Vincent told her. "It's only ten or eleven years old, but in the medieval period, windmills covered the entire area."

"Charming!" she proclaimed.

The chauffeur pulled to the curb and a doorman rushed forward. Le Moulin Rouge was packed this evening, as it was on most nights, but the crest on the door of the automobile did not escape the notice of the doorman. He sent word to the maitre d' that an important guest had arrived. "Tell him it's the de Chagnys," he whispered to his lackey. "He might want to prepare the Count's usual table."

Aurelia had never seen such a place. Accustomed to the conservatoire with its emphasis on decorum, nothing had prepared her for a cabaret such as this one. Here, the aristocracy rubbed elbows with the bourgeois. Ladies in fine garments rode donkeys in the garden, where long tables were set up in front of a stage where a line of dancers would perform a celebrated quadrille, the infamously Can-Can dance. The Queen of Montmartre, La Goulue ("the Glutton") had been the toast of Paris and the highest paid entertainer of her day, and had made the Can-Can famous by kicking off men's top hats with her toe and raising her skirt to reveal an embroidered heart on her unmentionables. Some dancers dispensed with the unmentionables, as Aurelia would soon discover.

Beside the stage stood another enormous architectural folly in the shape of an elephant, three stories tall. A line of men in formal attire stood in line, ready to pay a franc for admission.

"How whimsical!" Aurelia proclaimed. "I wonder what can be inside? Why are there no women in line?"

"Um…women aren't allowed in the elephant," Vincent said, turning a bright shade of red. Damn, but his collar was tight tonight. "There's…they say there is…a spiral staircase in the beast's leg." He pointed to a doorway where customers could enter. "In the belly, there is a special…attraction."

"A display?" she asked innocently. "Or is it that the stairs provide some sort of physical exercise that is too demanding for women?"

"You might say that," he replied, grateful for the unexpected interruption when a troupe of semi-nude dancers rushed onto the stage, distracting Aurelia's attention.

"This is all a bit much, if I do say so myself. Want to leave?" Vincent asked before they checked their cloaks. He had to practically shout into her ear to be heard above the din of boisterous music and raucous laughter.

She shook her head. "No," she insisted. "It's an adventure!" She may have come from a humble Swedish country house, but she was determined to prove that she was as sophisticated as any Parisian.

The couple was shown to a table front and center of the dance floor. The table had a grimy feel to it, as though it could use a scouring, and the floors were caked with a sticky residue that stuck to the soles of their shoes. Aurelia seemed not to notice, so entranced was she by the spectacle that was le Moulin Rouge, but Vincent noticed it, and not for the first time had begun to question his judgment in bringing her to such a place.

A flourish of long skirts, petticoats, and black stockings whirled past them as the dancers launched into their first performance of the evening. Aurelia wrinkled her nose at the dirty costumes the women wore, but when the dancers finished their gyrations by dropping to the floor in a move known as the splits, she understood where the stains came from. The floor hadn't seen a mop in years.

"Vincent!" a youthful swell bellowed. "Fancy meeting you here! Who's your friend?" the man asked as he lumbered towards them. He leaned over Aurelia's shoulder, pretending to accidentally brush against her.

She turned her face away from his wormwood-scented breath, the telltale sign of absinthe, and saw with disgust the trickle of bright green that trailed from the corner of his mouth.

"This is _Mademoiselle_ Delacorte," Vincent said with studied enunciation. He frowned at the drunken man, clearly displeased with this turn of events. "She is a friend of my family."

"A family friend? Dare I hope…a friend of your uncle's?" He leered at Aurelia, letting his insinuation sink in, then hiccupping loudly, destroying any mood he had been trying to create. "The apple doesn't fall far from the tree, _n'est-ce pas_?" He reeled unsteadily as he signaled the waiter to bring a chair to the table.

Vincent stood as two more acquaintances gathered 'round. "We were just leaving," he announced firmly.

"We were?" Aurelia asked, surprised. "But the show is only beginning."

"Yesh, Vincent. Whass the rush?" a bleary-eyed blond asked, his words already slurring. "Don' ya want to share yer good fortune with the rest of us?"

"Yeah. Shouldn't be selfish," the other acquaintance, a disheveled youth, wailed. He winked at Aurelia. "Betcha she's someone who knows how to have a good time."

Vincent turned three shades of red. "My friend is a _lady_, and we are leaving."

"Oh, don't go off half-cocked," the first one said, and they slapped each other on the back and gave a rowdy laugh at a joke Aurelia would never get.

"I don't understand," she protested as Vincent led her through the crowded room, picked up their coats and steered her out the door. "They've had a bit too much to drink, it's true, but that's no reason for us to leave."

He ground to a halt. "Aurelia," he said angrily. "Those _chaps_ are not worthy of your company. Plus, I made a promise to your father. Let that suffice."

"But…I don't understand? Aren't they friends of yours?"

"They are no friends of mine. They are merely acquaintances, the spoiled sons of distant relations and business associates, people whose names I never bothered to remember. They are the kind of men who are not accustomed to seeing a lady at a place like Moulin Rouge—at least, not with a man to whom she is not married."

Finally, it became clear to her. "I see," she muttered. "They thought I am…that you and I…that we…? How absurd!"

"Exactly." He glanced around furtively, fully expecting Erik Delacorte to burst out of the darkness and throttle him at any moment. "I should never have brought you here, not to a place like this."

"Nonsense," she said sweetly. "I asked to come here. If anyone is to blame, it's me."

"Is that what we'll tell your father?"

"He need never know. Now, tell me where you think we should go?"

He brightened visibly. "You mean it? You'd really go somewhere else with me, after what just happened in there?"

"Of course," she said, patting his forearm reassuringly. "The night is young but you're right. I think I've had my fill of le Moulin Rouge. Now, what else would you suggest?"

"There are clubs that will offer you a true taste of the Paris Music Halls, without compromising your reputation," he said in all earnestness. "Have you ever heard of Le Miss—Mistinguett? They call her the Queen of the Music Halls, and she just happens to be performing at the Casino de Paris."

"I've never heard of her," she said, shaking her head, but with a charming smile upon her face. "But I'd love to hear her, if you don't mind."

"Mind?" he asked, incredulous. "It would be my pleasure."

Soon, they were walking through the doors of one of the most popular spots in the city. The _Casino de Paris _dated back to the 18th century as a performing venue, and unlike le Moulin rouge, it did not have a reputation as a gambling hall or a house of ill repute. The music hall was clean, bright, and pristine in appearance, as well as lavishly decorated. Judging by the gilt ornamentation and lush red velvet draperies, no expense had been spared.

Currently, the highest paid performer in the world was its star, a singer known as Le Mistinguett. Some of the best couturiers in Paris designed the costumes she wore, and the most celebrated illustrators painted her image for posters. Le Miss projected a "just beyond your reach" persona that was intriguing and beguiling, and despite the fact that she was neither a great beauty nor a good dancer, her allure was undeniable. It didn't matter that she had a weak, tremulous voice; what mattered was the courage and conviction with which she sang. She was the darling of Paris, and she knew it.

Tonight, a young vaudeville actor, mimic, and dancer named Maurice Chevalier would be appearing onstage beside the incomparable Le Miss. Although he was nearly twenty years younger than she, Chevalier was more than her co-star. He was her lover—a fact well known among Parisian cognoscenti—and he wore his affection for her on his sleeve. His trademark was a tuxedo, which he always wore onstage with a boater hat. It lent a comical effect when he stood beside Le Miss, dressed as she was in exquisite designer gowns.

As Vincent had promised, the acts were risqué without being tasteless, hinting of scandal rather than being scandalous. The rest of the night was filled with gaiety and good humor. They had even run into some of Vincent's friends – real friends, people whose names he knew – who were out in mixed company, and had a marvelous time. On the way back to the Delacorte apartment, both Vincent and Aurelia swore that their sides ached from laughing almost as much as their palms ached from applauding.

"I don't think I've ever had such an enjoyable evening," Aurelia confided.

"Me too," he replied, looking serious as they pulled up to the curb in front of her apartment building. The chauffeur stepped out of the vehicle and waited for Vincent to signal for him to open the door.

"I cannot thank you enough."

Vincent leaned close to her. "Aurelia, do you think we might do this again some time? Soon, I mean."

"I'd like that very much," she said, looking deep into his dark blue eyes. Falling into them, more like it.

A girl could drown in those eyes, as they say. She was drawn to him, leaning close enough for their foreheads to touch. A stray lock of her hair grazed his brow, and a frisson of desire swept through them both. The attraction between them was impossible to resist.

On impulse, he kissed the backs of her hands, then her cheek, and when she offered her lips to him, he kissed those, too. "Aurelia," he whispered, holding her close.

Her heart was pounding, wildly beating against her chest. He had to be able to feel it through their coats. "You'd better see me in," she replied gently and with obvious reluctance. "My father is no doubt sitting on pins and needles, waiting up for me."

Vincent reluctantly signaled the chauffeur, who opened the door for them. Exiting first, he extended his hand to Aurelia. They strolled slowly up the steps and into the apartment building, neither ready for the night to end. A dozen times, they wished each other sweet dreams, both desperately wanting one more touch of the hands, one more brush of the lips. They were barely aware of ascending in the lift and arriving at the apartment's doorstep. With great reluctance, Vincent bade her _bonne nuit_ and ran down the stairs, clicking his heels together in the marbled foyer before disappearing into his automobile…and into the night.

-0-0-0-

Little did Aurelia know that her father had followed them on their first date, staying discreetly in the background but keeping watch over her throughout the night. He had been ready to call up the fury of the Phantom when those louts had accosted her at le Moulin Rouge, but had to admit that Vincent acquitted himself quite well. Finally satisfied that the young man was not the bounder he'd feared he would turn out to be, Erik headed back home and had barely made it inside before the de Chagny car arrived. He had paused to catch his breath from running up flight after flight of stairs (where was that lift when he needed it?) when he heard the door creak open. Ducking quickly into his study, he picked up the nearest book—a thesaurus—and pretended to have fallen asleep in his favorite chair whilst reading.

The sight of him there, sound asleep, warmed his daughter through and through. He always made her feel beloved, and here he was, having struggled to wait up for her but obviously losing the fight to remain awake. She wondered for a moment what he'd done during the day that had left him so tired, but shrugged off any further thought of the matter.

"Father?" she whispered, gently shaking his shoulder. "Time for bed. You'll get a crick in your neck if you stay like that all night."

"Hmmm?" he mumbled, doing his best to act as if he'd been roused from deepest slumber. He wiped the "sleep" from his eyes and stared up at her drowsily. He could not have missed the glow about her, the happiness on her face, and that in turn made him feel happy. When she walked, it was as if she were floating on air.

"Is that you, my dear? How was your evening?"

"Wonderful," she sighed, hugging herself and taking a little twirl around the room. "_He_ was wonderful."

Erik scoffed. "_He_ was?"

"I mean, _it _was wonderful. Our evening. It was simply splendid. We had a good time. We dined, we danced, we laughed…." She twirled again, reminding him of how she had danced on tiptoes when she had been a child and was too ecstatic for words. His little ballerina, now a budding prima donna.

"I take it this means you'll be seeing him again."

"Mmm mmm," she said, nodding. "I certainly hope so." She kissed his forehead and bade him good night, then danced down the hallway humming the signature tune that Le Miss had made famous, a song called "_Mon Homme_." She closed the door to her room behind her, but her voice carried all the way to the study.

Erik shook his head ruefully. "Did you see that, Christine?" he whispered to the empty room. "Our little girl is growing up."

A gentle breeze tickled the back of his neck, and he turned towards the window. It was closed, of course, but that didn't matter. He knew what the movement in the air meant, and soon, the room was filled with the fragrance of irises. Christine was with him, watching over him, helping him to be a good father—or if not a good one, then the best that he could be.

He missed her desperately, missed her so much that the longing physically pained him, but he had given up questioning his sanity when he felt her presence next to him. These interludes had kept him strong over the years and given him the will to go on living. He had promised Christine to love Aurelia enough for the both of them, and he had made good on that promise. God willing, one day Aurelia would find a love equally as strong as that which he'd had with her mother.

He only hoped that she wouldn't fall for young de Chagny.

-0-0-0-


	49. Chapter 49

**To Be Loved****  
****Chapter 49  
By HDKingsbury & MadLizzy**

March 13, 2011

_"If you are out of trouble, look for danger."_ ~Sophocles

"How did things go tonight?" Vincent's mother asked. She and Raoul had waited up for Vincent's return, both eager to learn how the evening had transpired. Raoul seemed relieved that his son had returned alive and in one piece. Based on his experience, one could never predict how Erik might react. In spite of Clementine's reassurances that the famous author was a changed man, Raoul had not been entirely convinced.

"Aurelia was everything I hoped," he replied. "Absolutely delightful!"

"Gracious. I've never seen you in such an animated state over a girl," Clementine commented.

Raoul looked up from the newspaper he had been pretending to read. "You're really taken with the Delacorte girl?"

"As a matter of fact, I believe I am, Father. Do you object?"

Clemmie interrupted and walked over to her husband. "No, your father does not object. We do not live in the Middle Ages, where blood lines must be kept pure."

Raoul shot a look at his wife, one that said he was not quite in agreement with her. "They've only known each other for a few weeks, and this is their first evening out together, my dear. Vincent is young. Let's allow him to take his time. Remember, one's first crush is not necessarily one's true love." He took her hand and kissed it gently to demonstrate his affection.

Clementine bestowed a loving smile on her husband, but returned her attention to her son. "Have you formed a serious attachment to her?"

"I'm not sure, but if things continue in the direction they're going, that would be the next logical step."

His mother nodded with understanding. "I would rather you married a woman of so-called common background but whom you loved, than marry some nobleman's daughter who has good family lines but for whom you don't give a fig."

"Do you share Mother's opinion, Father?" Since his father was being civil with him, Vincent thought it best not to rile him up and call him Old Man, as he was often wont to do.

Raoul's brows creased as he carefully considered what to say. It wasn't that he thought Mlle Delacorte was necessarily a poor choice, but that father of hers was a different matter. He wasn't sure he really wanted to be connected to his former adversary, even if the connection was a tenuous one. It was one thing to acknowledge the man publicly as a well-respected author, but quite another to accept Delacorte into the family even if only by marriage! "I think that it is too soon to be making any decisions," he finally said. "Enjoy yourself. Take the young lady out to parties or evenings at the theater, but don't go making any rash decisions."

Vincent let his father's words sink in and realized the Old Man – He could think it, couldn't he? – was trying to meet him at least half way. Besides, as he got to know Aurelia better, his father would surely come to accept the inevitable. For now, therefore, he would be patient.

"I'll consider your advice, Father," Vincent said with a grin. And then, for no apparent reason, he blurted out, "You know, sometimes you're not all that bad!"

Raoul chuckled. "I could say the same about you." He folded the newspaper and put it on the table, then rose from his chair and offered Clementine his arm and gave her a meaningful look. "In the mean time, I think it's time we old folks tottered off to bed."

-0-0-0-

He drew back into the alley behind the apartment building, and turned his face up towards Aurelia's window. The curtains were drawn and blocking his view, but light spilled out around them. No matter. The Stranger could imagine what she was doing. Undressing. Stripping off that innocent little gown. Next, she would sponge her pearl - white skin with clear, warm water and dab away the moisture with towels of Egyptian cotton. He could almost smell the scent of fine soap. Pears? No, it was the fragrance of Vinolia that he had inhaled in her room. Nothing but the best for the monster's get, _bien sur_!

It had been a productive evening. No one knew that he had been watching them from the time that young dandy had driven up in his fancy motorcar to their leaving, only to be followed by her father. Briefly debating what to do – follow Delacorte or stay behind and reconnoiter the place? – the Stranger chose the latter, and while the apartment was empty, the he had let himself in, using skills learned while he'd been away from Paris, skills that were not approved of by Polite Society.

Inside the apartment, he had inspected the rooms. It wasn't that he was looking for anything specific, but rather he wanted to get a glimpse of the inhabitants' personal lives. Of most interest had been Mlle Aurelia's room. He had allowed himself the luxuries of carefully going through her dresser drawers; of feeling her silken under garments; of inhaling the fragrance of her soaps and lotions; and of allowing himself to fantasize. The fact that he had been forced to hurry rankled him, but being found in the apartment was not worth the risk. Not yet. It wasn't quite time for the games to begin. And so, he had departed as quietly as he'd entered, and returned to the corner in the shadows that had been his watching post these past weeks.

At last, all the lights went all out. No doubt, they were going to bed now, but it would be best to wait a bit longer. "Such charades!" he cackled softly, pulling his ragged wool coat close around his bony frame. "Delacorte deserves what he's going to get, watching that boy when the real danger was right here, outside his apartment all the time."

He shivered with excitement as he remembered what it had been like to draw the knife across that young man's throat, how alive it had left him feeling. His heart pounded against his ribs as if it were going to explode, and his thoughts went back to a time when a young diva like Mlle Delacorte would have welcomed him to her room…even her bed. The exhilaration that the eradication of the dance instructor had given him had not lasted long enough. The Stranger had wanted to take his time, to finish this part of the job by going after the Giry bitch next, but she had fled the city and was now holed up with that aristocratic slut of a daughter. Talk about trying to make a silk purse from a sow's ear! Little Marguerite Giry? Little Meg? More like Little Whore! A baroness? Ha! What a laugh that was! But the situation had changed and was no longer his to control. They were both too far away for him to follow, and so that was that.

If he had more time, maybe he could pursue them later, but he didn't think he would be able to track them down. The disease was continuing its deadly progress, and as he slowly weakened, he would have to depend more upon cunning rather than simple brute force. Instead of engaging in a drawn out campaign of cat and mouse with Delacorte, he was going to have to step things up. Forget the sideshow; it was time instead to get to the main event.

He gazed at his own filthy claws, at his skin fissured and cracked like dried mud, and remembered the genteel furnishings that he had seen in the apartment and once again cursed the man responsible for his change in fortune. He fingered the cake of soap in his pocket — Mlle Aurelia's soap that he'd stolen from her room — and imagined how she had used it on her pale, virginal skin. His thoughts lingered over certain images that sprang unbidden from the depths of his depravity. Regrettably, there was nothing he could do about it. He could thank Delacorte for _that_, too: the fact that he could never again make love. The illness that was sucking the life out of him had robbed him of his virility long ago. The last time he'd engaged in carnal relations, it had been forced, brutal, and over far too soon.

Then he discovered that the mere thought of it made him harden. Maybe he was wrong. Maybe it wasn't completely over. Maybe all he needed was someone fresh and young, someone unwilling. Someone who would fight him enough to excite him. Someone like that girl…or her boyfriend. Either would do for a diversion. André had been a willing lover, and the Stranger had formed an attachment to him. Poor André…driven to suicide because of Delacorte! Soon, he would be avenged.

Though well concealed in the shadows, he was concerned that the longer he stayed, the better the chance that someone might spot him. In a few minutes, the night watch would make its rounds. By now he knew their schedules, knew when he could count on them to doze off and when they would be having their tea. It was time to leave. Reluctantly, and keeping well within the dark recesses of the alleyways, he headed back to his lair.

Before long, he was safe inside his hiding place, where he concentrated on his trophy. The distinctive fragrance tickled his nostrils. Tonight, he would let the Vinolia slide over the scurf of his withered body, touching places that an innocent lamb such as Aurelia Delacorte would know nothing about. He imagined how she had used the same bar of soap on her own nubile figure (so innocent, so pure) and vowed that soon enough, he would begin her true education.

And he would teach her father a lesson or two as well.

-0-0-0-

Two days later, Erik was sitting at the breakfast table with his daughter, sharing a typical Parisian breakfast of strong coffee and a chocolate croissant. Gone were the heavy breakfasts they had enjoyed in Sweden, replaced with lighter continental fare. He scanned the headlines of the morning newspaper while absent-mindedly stirring his coffee, and sat bolt upright when a certain article caught his attention.

"What is it?" Aurelia asked.

"An arrest has been made in the murder of that young man, Rabbelais. Detective Boisneuf is quoted in the article. He says that the suspect is a former inmate of the Ste-Anne Psychiatric Centre, with a record of violence and criminal behavior." He read aloud, perfectly aping the detective's distinctive drawl and rustic regional accent. "'The lunatic proclaims his innocence,' says the detective, 'but then, they always do! All the protestations in the world cannot change the fact that we found the murder weapon in his possession. As for a motive? Who can say what compelled him to choose an innocent dancer who never hurt a soul in his life. It was what we in the profession of crime solving refer to as opportunistic. The victim was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time.'"

Aurelia dabbed the corners of her mouth with her napkin and shifted in her chair.

Her discomfort did not go unnoticed. "Forgive me, my dear," her father said softly. "I should never have mentioned this at the table."

"Oh, it's all right. It just that…that man, Rabbelais. He was one of the first people I met in Paris. He seemed so vibrant, so full of life…. What a pity to be cut down in his prime." She shook her head sadly.

Erik, however, was relieved by the news, thinking that whatever danger had been lurking about was now gone and that he was absolved beyond the shadow of a doubt. He only hoped that someone bothered to inform Mme Giry. It was the least they could do for the poor woman.

"Time for me to head off to the conservatoire," Aurelia said, a bit apprehensively. "We have technical examinations this morning."

"You'll knock 'em dead," her father said, pleased with himself for knowing the slang that the young people were using nowadays.

A thought crossed her mind. "Father, what do you think of having Vincent and his family over for supper one day this week?"

Erik almost choked on his coffee. "Pardon me? The entire brood?"

"Really, Father. There are rules in polite society. They invited us; we reciprocate. That's how it's done."

"Must we?"

"Yes, we must. Vincent says he has something important he would like to share with us!"

"Is he bringing his aunts and uncle with him?"

"No, just a small intimate supper."

"Intimate? With the six of them?"

"Not that kind of intimate. Must you be difficult? It's only supper."

"Fine. Just give me enough warning so I can take a bromide. A bottle of good single malt Scotch should do the trick. By the way, who's going to prepare this supper?"

"Why, I am, of course!" She beamed at him confidently.

"Well, why didn't you say so in the first place? I want to see this!"

Aurelia rose and smoothed out the wrinkles in her skirt. The top button of her white blouse was hidden beneath the heart-shaped pendant that Erik had given Christine long ago. "I'm pleased you have such faith in my culinary abilities," she teased. "Perhaps I'll make a classic Swedish dish."

He wrinkled his crooked nose as if a bad smell filled the air. "At least you won't have time to fix that ghastly lutfisk. I can thank my lucky stars for that, but wherever will you find caribou in Paris?"

"I have my resources," she said, giving her father a quick goodbye peck on the cheek. The first person she'd ask was Jabes. He seemed to know everything.

-0-0-0-

At the conservatoire, Aurelia found Jabes bent over his latest creation. The advent of electrical lighting had necessitated greater scenic realism, thanks to better illumination. Providing realism of spectacle was a demanding and time-consuming task, and he was forever thinking of ways to make set changes more efficient for the stage crew and more exciting for the audience.

"What brings you here?" he asked. "I thought all the first year students were being tested today."

A casual shrug of the shoulders belied her pride. "It didn't take as long as I expected."

"That's usually a good sign." He stood up and dusted his hands on his thighs. She seemed distant, troubled. "What's the matter? Was old Professor Benedetti tough on you?"

"Not at all. The test was easy. There was something else I wanted to ask you about, but it seems that the problem has been solved."

"A problem?"

"A few days ago, I thought I saw a beggar outside, watching the entrance to the conservatory. A day later, I caught a glimpse of him out of the corner of my eye. He was standing in the shadows of the proscenium, watching the singers." Her cheeks flushed with color. "The truth is, he made me uncomfortable. I thought he was staring at me, but the moment he realized I had seen him, he vanished."

Jabes glanced around, trying to look casual as he did so. He did not want to let on how seriously this concerned him. "Did he try to talk to you? Have you seen him since?"

"No. Not at all. It's just that…he looked so hungry and cold. I was wondering if there was some way we might help him."

"If he's coming into the building, it sounds like he is already helping himself." He saw the frown on Mlle Delacorte's face and chose his next words carefully. "Don't worry about it too much. I'll speak to the night watchman and I'll personally double check the locks. We don't want any vagrants setting up camp in the cellars." He paused and added, "It's bad for business."

She smiled weakly. "I suppose it's nothing to be concerned about."

"Until I've had a chance to look around, don't wander off by yourself. Don't go exploring, all right?" The last thing he wanted to do was unduly alarm her, but the man had no business being in the building. He'd read the story in the newspaper this morning about an escaped lunatic who had committed a horrible murder. This vagrant could be just as dangerous, skulking about a conservatoire filled with several hundred young men and women attending classes on weekdays, and the weekend academy for youngsters offered yet another opportunity for mayhem. A predator would find easy pickings with such innocent and unsuspecting quarry crowded into one place. Yet here was Mlle Delacorte, feeling sorry for the man.

"I'll be careful," she promised, and then changed the subject. "By the way, my young man is coming to supper later this week, and I want to prepare some special dishes from my country. You wouldn't happen to know of a Swedish grocer in the area, would you?"

-0-0-0-

The next morning, Aurelia sent a letter to Vincent and his family, inviting them to supper this coming Saturday evening, which would allow her seven days for preparations. She made sure she explained that this would be an informal gathering, and that she would be preparing the meal herself. A reply from Clementine de Chagny arrived the following day, expressing her delight in accepting the invitation. She added that unfortunately, her daughters would not be able to attend as they were spending the weekend in the country with their aunts, and suggested that this would probably give the adults more time to engage in some much anticipated conversation.

Saturday came, and Aurelia spent the entire day in the kitchen. She wanted to make something simple yet elegant and easy to prepare, too. Her father had suggested that they hire someone for the day to help with the meal, perhaps engage the services of a caterer, but Aurelia would not hear of this. This was going to be her chance to show off her talents, so Erik relented. He did, however, help when called upon to do so, but he asked no questions and offered no further suggestions. He ran errands, picked up fresh flowers for the table, and acted as sous chef when necessary, pleased that he was still quite handy with a sharp knife. He knew how important this was for his daughter. All he wanted was for the evening to be a success.

In planning the menu, Aurelia wanted to avoid the heavy meals that were commonly served at formal and semi-formal affairs, and there definitely would not be any footmen to help with serving the meal. _Mme le vicomtesse_ had set the tone of informality with her picnic, so Aurelia took this into consideration and came up with the idea of a traditional Swedish country supper, the kind Fru Nystrom had made for them on special occasions back home in Gamla Uppsala. After working up and discarding one menu after the other, she settled on Swedish meatballs with lingonberry jam, mashed potatoes, pickled cucumber slices, and chanterelles. And for those who preferred something stronger than coffee or tea to drink with their meal, there would be vodka and schnaps. When she ran the final menu past her father, she knew she'd hit on the right idea. It seemed that she wasn't the only one missing the food of home. It would be a unique experience for her guests, offering them a taste of foods they might never have tried otherwise, and since the manner of preparation was unique to Sweden, it would offer an opportunity for conversation. For dessert, there would be _Prinsesstarta_, a sponge cake with custard and whipped cream covered in green marzipan with a pink candy rose on top. Afterwards, she planned to serve Swedish coffee and _ischoklad_, a delicate chocolate candy that would literally melt in the mouth.

Once everything was prepared and the table set just so, she slipped off to her room to change and freshen up. Cooking in the kitchen had been more work than she had anticipated, and she wanted to look her best when Vincent and his family arrived. She took a deep breath and hugged herself. The thought of Vincent being here, in her apartment, made her feel all tingly inside.

At last, the hour arrived. The doorbell rang, and Aurelia was so excited that she practically ran to the door. She opened the door and greeted Raoul, Clementine and Vincent, inviting them in and clucking over the bouquet of exotic flowers that Vincent extended to her, as well as the bottle of Tokay dessert wine that Raoul offered. Erik joined the party, and nodded agreeably when Clementine made polite comments.

"What a charming home you have," she said sweetly. Gazing at the rug in the foyer, she added, "and I do so admire your taste in carpets."

Erik chuckled, knowing that she had recognized it as the same pattern she had chosen for her own foyer, but then her attention turned to the portrait that dominated the hallway. "Oh, that's Christine. I'd almost forgotten how beautiful she was. The artist captured her smile perfectly."

While the host made small talk with the vicomte and his wife, Vincent excused himself and immediately went to Aurelia's side, complimenting her on how charming she looked. "How lovely your eyes are," he said, wondering why he'd never commented on their beauty before. "They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Yours are an enigma to me."

Aurelia felt both pleased and nervous, and struggled to keep from giggling. The last thing she ever thought looked good was her eyes, though people often told her they were striking. "You mean, because they remind you of a pair of mismatched cufflinks?" she asked impishly.

Her teasing manner brought a grin to Vincent's face. "No, because they remind of the beauty of the countryside. One is the color of the evening sky, and the other is like a secret glen holding hidden promises."

"Are you trying to be romantic, sir?" she said.

"Would you rather I wasn't?"

"Of course not!"

And that's when Clementine joined the two. They engaged in several minutes of lightweight banter, leaving Raoul and Erik to amuse themselves.

"They do seem quite taken with each other," said Raoul, not quite sure how to take being left out of the conversation.

Erik grunted in agreement. He wasn't too sure how he felt about Vincent speaking so…so familiarly to his daughter. One thing he knew, it did not leave him feeling comfortable. Raoul caught the subtle signs and unspoken messages being given off by the man he was speaking to and suspected that Delacorte was not yet ready to welcome a Chagny into the family.

"I hope you don't take this the wrong way, as it is certainly no reflection upon your daughter," said Raoul, "but I suggested that my son not go rushing into anything…permanent."

Erik knew exactly what the vicomte was referring to. "Don't worry, old boy," he replied, "I made the same recommendation to my daughter."

Raoul laughed, and relaxed a little. "Do you think our offspring will pay any heed to our words of fatherly wisdom?"

"Not a chance in Hell."

A sudden détente sprang up between the two men, and Raoul offered an understanding nod. "That's what I thought, too."

"Care for a drink?" Erik poured a couple of glasses of the Scotch whisky he bought the day Aurelia sprang the idea of this supper engagement on him. He handed one to Raoul. "To the wisdom of parents, and to our children who know better than we do."

"To parental wisdom, and the hope that our children will one day grasp it," Raoul added with a nod. Their glasses clinked, and Clementine chose that moment to rejoin her husband and their host.

"So, just what are the two of you up to? I was watching the both of you out of the corner of my eye, and I could have sworn you were up to no good."

"Nonsense, my dear," said Raoul. "Monsieur Delacorte and I were simply offering a toast to our children."

An eyebrow shot up on Clementine's face. "Oh? Really? Somehow I suspect there's more to it than that, but I also suspect that neither of you will admit that this is so."

Before anything more could be said, Aurelia announced that supper was ready to be served, and invited them all to the table.

The dining room was appointed with the antique furniture that was currently favored by Parisian designers, with massive chairs ornately carved with motifs of oak leaves, acorns, and the occasional sylph running through an imaginary woodland. While Raoul held the heavy chair for his wife, Erik reached for Aurelia's chair and found himself bumping elbows with Vincent, who had beat him to it. The two of them scowled at each other for a moment, but Erik graciously gave in and permitted the young man to do the honors of seating his hostess opposite her father, who returned to his place at the head of the long table.

The meal had been going well, with everyone staying on safe subjects. There were many heartfelt compliments on the food, and what a pleasure it was to eat such simple yet tasty fare. Clementine, who had been raised in constrained Victorian England, vowed that she much preferred the relaxed manners of France, which allowed for cozy suppers with enchanting new friends and succulent fare. Aurelia beamed with pride, while Vincent, who was sitting on her left, gazed dreamily into her eyes.

Clementine gently kicked her son under the table, giving a silent and subtle gesture that he should pay more attention to everyone at the table, not just the young lady who captivated him, and changed the subject by asking Erik about his next book. "I am so looking forward to your next adventure!"

Erik, in turn, promised to send her an autographed copy when it came out. She beamed at her favorite author like a love-struck teenager, while Raoul rolled his eyes in comic distress. "Did you really have to tell her that?" he said, his tone joking.

"Far be it for me to turn away a devoted reader," Erik responded, likewise in a light manner.

"I for one am interested in hearing Vincent's important news," Aurelia piped in. "Well, I am. I've been waiting patiently throughout the meal for some hint as to what it is. We've covered just about every topic under the sun, but so far we've avoided the one topic in which I am most interested."

Vincent obviously agreed, because he replied with, "Your wish is my command." Directing his words to everyone at the table, he began, "Mother, Father, Monsieur Delacorte…and Mademoiselle Delacorte, I would like to invite you all to attend my next race. Originally, it was to be a relatively short race, from Paris to Rouen. However, the organizers have decided that instead of an event that would barely last a couple of hours, there would be more interest in a long distance, open road race, and so the event will be from Paris to Bordeaux."

"Why, that's almost four times the distance," his mother exclaimed. "What reason have the organizers given for this change?"

"The idea is to provide the drivers a more demanding course. Anyone can drive fast over a short distance, but this new route will test a driver's skill as well as his racing ability."

Raoul frowned at the whole idea. He was trying to be supportive of his son, but sometimes he wondered just what kind of recklessness the boy was going to engage in next. "I thought the government had put an end to open road racing," he said. "After the fiasco last May that was the Paris to Madrid race."

"True, but certain persons of influence have gotten the powers that be to relent and allow this one race."

"No. You don't mean…"

"Yes, father. Uncle Philippe called in a few favors for us."

Raoul shot a frustrated glance at his wife. "Remind me to have a good, long talk with my brother. And soon."

"Oh, Raoul," his wife said, soothingly. "I think you are getting yourself upset over nothing. Vincent is an extremely talented driver."

"Do you remember how many drivers were injured in that race?"

"Yes…and do you bother to read in the papers every day about how many people are injured and even killed by horse drawn vehicles every week?"

Suspecting that there was no way he was going to win this argument, Raoul relented. After all, Vincent wasn't a child, and the boy had a stubborn streak a mile wide. Tell him no, and he'd go out of his way to do just the opposite. "You're right, of course," he said to his wife. To Vincent, he said, "Don't think this means I am embracing your desire to risk life and limb to drive at breakneck speeds, but at the same time, you're a young man, old enough to make up your own mind."

Aurelia and her father had been watching the discussion between father and son with great interest. Hoping to smooth things over, Aurelia said that she was looking forward to watching the race. "But what shall I do? Watch the beginning here in Paris and miss the end at Bordeaux? Or forego the start and wait for you at the finish line?"

"I have an idea," volunteered Clementine. "We'll see Vincent off, then catch the train to Bordeaux and wait for him there."

"Capital idea!" beamed Vincent. "I would appreciate it very much if you were all there."

Even Raoul agreed that this idea made sense. "So, when is this race to be run?" he asked. "I'll need to make the necessary arrangements for train tickets and rooms in Bordeaux."

"A week from today," said Vincent. "We'll be meeting at the Bois around three in the morning, and once we're all arrived, leave from there. That is, unless there are changes made between now and then."

In the end, it was agreed that the Chagnys and the Delacortes would be there to support Vincent in his attempt to win his own version of fame and glory, and the conversation drifted on to other, less contentious topics.

At last, the supper party broke up and genial conversation came to an end. While his parents prepared to say their good-byes, Vincent offered to stay. "I'd be happy to help you with the dishes," he said. Everyone knew that this was merely an excuse for the two of them to have some time to themselves, and tacitly agreed that the young people deserved a little time together, without parents hanging around.

"If we take the automobile, how will you get home, son?" asked his mother.

"I'll take a cab, if you don't mind. You and Father go ahead. Oh, and don't bother waiting up for me."

With heartfelt _au revoirs_, Clementine and Raoul were on their way, arm-in-arm. Twenty-two years of marriage had not dimmed their love for one another. Erik was more than a little envious of them. Suddenly feeling very much alone, he followed Vincent and Aurelia into the kitchen. "You don't really want to do the dishes, do you?"

Aurelia blushed, and Vincent found himself stammering slightly. "No, sir. I confess that the offer was made so that I could spend some time here…with you. I mean, with both of you."

A smirk showed up on Erik's face. "No. You made the offer to have more time with my daughter."

Vincent offered a sheepish grin. "Yes, sir. Guilty as charged."

Erik remembered back when he was courting Christine. He remembered the pure joy simple walks in the park had brought both of them, and he found himself softening toward Vincent. The lad wasn't really all that bad and his daughter had always shown good judgment in people. She wasn't a child any more. It was time he made it known that he trusted her. Trusted both of them. "It's quite mild for this late in the year," he said in an offhand manner. "Maybe the two of you would prefer to take a walk, to work off some of the delicious meal we had this evening."

"Really, Father?" Aurelia asked, incredulous. Could this obliging man really be her father? "What about the dishes?"

Her father replied, "I think I can handle them. It wouldn't be the first time I cleaned a kitchen."

"Then, sir," said Vincent, suddenly very serious. "May I take your daughter for a walk?"

Erik turned to his daughter. "Do you wish to take a walk with this young man, Aurelia?"

She blushed becomingly. "I'd love to."

"Well then, be on your way," he said, recognizing that this night, his world had changed. He only wished that Christine had been here to witness their daughter's emergence as a young woman in love. "Just don't keep her out too late."

"I won't, sir," said Vincent. "You have my word!"

-0-0-0-

"Father's right. It is quite mild," said the young woman. She untied the hood of her coat and let it fall around her shoulders.

"Spoken like a true descendant of the Vikings," Vincent teased, but he buttoned his overcoat to his chin nonetheless. The air was crisp and clear, with a slight chill that foretold winter's approach. It was a moonless night, sweet and calm, and the starlight shone clear and bright. A few blocks away, the golden Oriental dome of the Palais Garnier gleamed in the glow of electric lamplights, drawing them towards the grand building like moths to an irresistible flame. "What possessed you to come to Paris to study? You were already making a name for yourself in Sweden. Not that I'm complaining, mind you. If you hadn't come here, I'd never have met you."

She shrugged her delicate shoulders. "Ever since I was a little girl, I dreamed of singing here. I knew that if I could excel in Paris, I could go anywhere, do anything."

"You say that with such disappointment. Has it not worked out the way you expected?"

"The teachers have developed rigid technical exercises and peculiar theories about singing. Whether a method works to one's advantage or not, they expect it to be followed without question." She glanced at him mischievously. "I'll let you in on a secret. I pretend to go along with them, to make them happy, but my father's methods work better for me. The teachers take all the credit for whatever success I enjoy, but it's actually my father who has taught me everything I know about singing."

"A writer, a magician, and a voice teacher too? What else does he do?"

"He can do anything he sets his mind to. Architecture is another of his interests, for example. You should see what he's done with our little house in Gamla Uppsala. He's a genius."

"You love him very much."

"Of course I do. You love your father too, don't you?"

"I suppose. In a way. I mean, I don't really know him all that well. He was often out of town when I was young, always on family business or checking on his investments. Mother did her best to make sure we had our meals together every evening, but I went away to school when I was eight, just as my father did." He noticed a look of sadness on her face. "Oh, we spent lots of time together on Father's yacht, and he taught me to sail, hoping that I'd follow in his footsteps and enter the navy, and possibly become respectable," he confided. "The Old Man keeps a little house at Perros-Guirec, and we'd go up there whenever I was home from boarding school on holiday. He'd make sure I hadn't forgotten my way around the riggings. I ended up entering the navy, but I couldn't abide taking orders and resigned my commission."

"Perros-Guirec? I should like to go there someday. My mother mentioned it in her journal. I believe my grandfather is buried there."

"Then one day soon we shall go and visit the churchyard together. That is, if you wish. We'll open up the house and spend the weekend there…with your father, of course. Perhaps my sisters would like to come along as well. It will be an adventure."

"I'd like that very much," she said warmly. They had come quite a distance, all the way from the apartment house to the steps of the Palais Garnier. She looked towards the heavens, leaning back to see the ornate frieze surrounding the pediment of the grand building.

"Would you like to go inside?" he asked hopefully.

"But…it's closed. The performance ended long ago, and everyone's gone for the night," said Aurelia.

"Where there's a will, there's a way. Besides, there's usually a night watchman on the premises, one who will let us have a look around in return for a token of appreciation," he said, rubbing his forefingers and thumb together to indicate a bribe was in the offing.

As predicted, the night watchman was more than accommodating, once he saw the scrip in Vincent's gloved hand. "Be sure to go up to the rooftop," the man cackled, showing them the way to a seemingly endless staircase. "You kids enjoy yerselves, y'hear?" He sighed as he closed the door behind them, saying, "Young love," in a wistful manner.

The couple was more than willing to take advantage of the opportunity to see the city skyline at night. They were slightly winded from climbing hundreds of stairs, but the cold night air revived them. "What a view!" Vincent exclaimed.

They looked out over the vast expanse of rooftops. They could see all of Paris from this vantage, with the Eiffel Tower dominating the landscape. Here and there, a church stood out prominently: Notre Dame, la Madeleine, Sacre Coeur. Each one of them shone like polished ivory in the starlight, especially the latter two, with their white marble domes gleaming brightly. "It's magnificent," Aurelia agreed.

He couldn't help noticing the way her bosom rose and fell with each breath. Although the night air had been still on the ground, high above on the rooftop a breeze stirred, and when a frigid gust nearly knocked her sideways, Vincent stepped closer to shield her from the wind. "Let's sit down over here, behind this statue. Alee, as my father would say. We can enjoy the view without being blown over the edge." He spread out his cloak for the two of them to sit upon, and they huddled together on the rooftop beside the statue known as _Apollo, Poetry, and Music_ by the sculptor Aimé Millet. It was an enormous statue, easily seen from great distances surrounding the building, and overhead, the figure of Apollo held a gleaming lyre sheathed in gold, glowing with reflected lamplight like a beacon in the night.

"My father used to tell me about all of the constellations," Aurelia whispered as she gazed heavenward. "He knows them all by name…several names, in fact. He knows what the Greeks call the stars, and what the Scandinavians call them. The Japanese, the Russians…." Her voice trailed away as she pondered the universe and its secrets.

Vincent was more practical, more grounded. "He's a writer. He must do a lot of research for his books."

"Not really," she answered. "His library is extensive and he reads constantly, but most of his stories are based on his own experiences. He travelled a lot in his youth, he says." She noticed that his attention was wandering. "Am I boring you?"

"Not at all. I thought I heard something, that's all." He looked up at the statue, half expecting to see someone looming overhead. "Silly of me. For a moment, I thought I heard a groan. You didn't hear it?" When she shook her head, he continued. "Must've been the wind. It sounded almost like a moan. Beyond sad. It was grieving, mournful."

She shivered. "That would be all we need. Some opera ghost peering over our shoulders."

"As long as it's not your father, we should be safe."

She giggled. "You don't really believe he'd spy on us, do you?"

"I think he'd do whatever it takes to protect you. Even from me. What he doesn't know is that I…," he stumbled over his words. Dare he be so bold? He did. "You're very precious to me, Aurelia. I'd never hurt you. I…I think I have feelings for you."

"I know that, Vincent. I wouldn't be here with you, like this, if I didn't feel the same way about you." Her eyes glimmered in the starlight as she turned her face to his, her lips glistening, inviting him to taste them.

While they held each other close, both were unaware that clinging to the strings of Apollo's lyre was a large black figure, eavesdropping as they confessed their love for each other. From a distance, it appeared to be a giant bird of prey peering down at them with blazing eyes, but the young lovers were oblivious to the danger it represented, and were blissfully ignorant as they kissed.

Suddenly the air was rent with a deafening sound like a thunderclap, and they fled the rooftop as if at the approach of a terrible storm. Had they looked over their shoulders at that very moment, they might have seen the Stranger climbing down from his perch, his eyes burning with hatred.

-0-0-0-


	50. Chapter 50

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 50**

By HDKingsbury & MadLizzy

March 20, 2011

_"I consider myself so ugly, my face inspires fear." _~ attributed to Michelangelo

-0-0-0-

The Stranger watched from the recesses of the alley as the messenger boy delivered a parcel to the Delacorte apartment. He knew what it contained, having bribed the child for a look inside the package. A few centimes were all it had taken to learn the details of the travel arrangements that the vicomte had made for his entourage, as well as the name and location of the hotel where they would be staying. His satisfaction was made all the richer for the knowledge that he had taken the coins from the girl's pocketbook a few nights before, when he had slipped into their apartment. The thought of the two of them never even missing the money chaffed him, increasing his resentment of them even more. Soon he would make them pay. In the meantime, he patted the remaining coins in his pocket and smiled when they jingled lightly.

That he was using Delacorte's own money to lay him low was perversely thrilling.

-0-0-0-

At the de Chagny townhouse, all was tranquil. For the moment. The girls were out. Vincent was out. That left Raoul and his wife some time alone together.

"It was good of you to include the Delacortes on our little holiday." Clementine placed her hands on her husband's shoulders and kissed the top of his head. She loved the feel of his thick blond hair, which, though receding slightly, still framed his aristocratic features like a lion's mane. He smiled and tipped his face up for a kiss as she tousled his hair between her fingers.

"It seemed like the right thing to do. After all, we discussed the arrangements in front of them in their own home. It would have been…unseemly…to exclude them."

"Does this mean you've accepted the fact that he's not the ruffian you remember from so long ago?"

Raoul put a hand to his throat, recalling that terrible night when Erik had put a noose around his neck and threatened to kill him. It was true that Delacorte was nothing like the lunatic he had been twenty years ago, when they fought over a woman. Not just any woman, but Christine! It was still difficult for him to believe she was gone. In his mind's eye, she would always be young and vibrant, and more beautiful than any other woman he had ever known. He shifted in his chair and pulled his wife into his lap, holding her tightly. However, out of tragedy had come true love. If he had married Christine, he would never have had these happy years with Clementine. He smiled at his wife. "I bow to your feminine judgment. He certainly seems like a changed man. Besides, I'd rather have him close at hand, where I can keep an eye on him."

"Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer. That sounds like something Philippe would say."

"My brother is a good businessman."

"Is that what you consider this? Good business?"

"Good family business. Where my wife and children are concerned, I can never be too careful." He buried his face against her neck and nipped at it playfully, raising his head when peals of laughter echoed off the marbled halls of their home, announcing that they were no longer alone.

"Ah, the pitter-patter of little feet. It seems the children have returned from visiting their aunts."

"Girls," Clementine called. "Come in. Your father and I have an announcement to make."

Moerogis, the eldest, removed her hat and set it aside while the staff helped her sisters, Camille and Zoé, shrug off their coats. When all three of the girls had joined them in the sitting room, Clementine announced the good news. "Your brother is entered in the Paris to Bordeaux race this coming Saturday. At this very moment, he is in the garage looking over the Turcat-Méry he'll be driving. Your father and I have decided that we are all going to Bordeaux by train to watch Vincent come across the finish line!"

Zoé frowned. "Who wants to see a stinky old race? Cars are smelly, and drivers look like monkeys covered in grease. Besides, those roaring engines make my ears hurt!"

"Oh, don't spoil that pretty little mouth by pouting," her mother chastised gently, extricating herself from her husband's embrace. "You girls must be tired from your trip, but I have some additional news that may brighten your day and change your mind about attending the race. What if I told you that M. Delacorte and his daughter will be joining us?"

The younger girls exchanged excited glances. "Why didn't you say so in the first place?" they cried, as they clasped arms and danced for joy.

Moerogis positively glowed. "This is a splendid idea! It will give me a chance to get to know Aurelia a little better. I can't wait to speak to her on the telephone. Isn't it exciting? Is it too late to call?"

"Is it an emergency?" her father asked sternly.

"No."

"Then no, you may not call her on the telephone. It is not a toy. It is to be used for important business or emergencies, not to ring someone up to exchange…whatever it is you want to exchange with her."

"But, I want to know what she'll wear to the race. We must make plans."

"You think much of her," Raoul remarked dryly.

"She's fantastic! I stopped by the conservatory last week, and she was practicing her scales. I waited outside the door and listened for quite some time without her knowing it. I've never heard such a voice before; it was the voice of an angel, I tell you. She shouldn't be wasting her time in school. She should be on stage!"

"Very well," Raoul said, giving in. "But not until after we've had a bite to eat. It would be inexcusable to call during the dinner hour."

"I think it is admirable that Mlle Delacorte wants a formal education," Clementine interjected. "After all, her father is successful enough that she needn't worry about her future."

"She has ambition, that one," Raoul grumbled. "Reminds me of her mother." His brow knit as troubling thoughts crossed his mind. "She must be planning a career." His thoughts returned to Christine. Had they married, she would have been forced to give up the stage—a prospect that had concerned her greatly—but she had thrown it all away for Erik. How much did singing really matter to Christine's daughter? Would she be as callous of Vincent as Christine had been with him? In spite of their strained relationship, Raoul loved his son, and wanted him to succeed in affaires de coeur as much as he wanted the boy to succeed in his chosen pursuit—even if it happened to be automobile racing.

Clementine frowned at her husband as if she could read his mind. "We'll have plenty of time to discuss Aurelia's plans for the future on the train, when we join the Delacortes for a nice, long ride. That would be much more appropriate than talking about them when they aren't present, don't you agree? Now," she said, changing the subject. "Tell me all about the visit with your aunties. How are the dears?"

-0-0-0-

The day of the race had finally arrived, and the field of drivers was prodigious, with more than two hundred entries for the event. There were no special qualifications for the event other than paying the entry fee. In short, anyone could take part, regardless of his (or in some cases, her) skills behind the wheel (or lack of same). As in any cross-country race, this one would be about more than speed. It would be about endurance and survival, and each car would not only carry a driver, but a co-pilot who would serve as a mechanic. Also aboard would be various tools and replacement parts that would be needed should an accident occur. Once outside of the city and its paved streets, their course would take them along unimproved country roads, many of which were filled with ruts and potholes.

Thankfully, they had been enjoying a dry spell, so there would not be any puddles or muddy roads to contend with, but being late fall, one never knew what Nature might see fit to throw his way. It was still hours before sunrise, and the skies were clear for now. That bode well for later in the day when the sun's warming rays would shine down, but for now, the temperatures were chill to say the least. The men and the few women who made up the field were dressed accordingly—knee-high boots, khaki driving trousers (or in the women's case, sturdy skirts), warm shirts, full-length dusters, driving caps, scarves and goggles.

Throughout the Bois, the starting point of the race, and along the streets of the city, literally thousands of people milled about, eagerly awaiting the start of the race. Many times more that number were already beginning to make their way along the 580-kilometer route the drivers would take, staking out places where the view was best. Reporters and telegraphers were stationed everywhere along the planned route, to pass along news and the running order to those waiting at Bordeaux.

There were conflicting claims as to who invented the first automobile. Was it that French engineer, Édouard Delamare-Debouteville, who in 1883 built a single-cylinder four-stroke engine which ran on stove gas? Or was it, as others claimed, the German, Gottlieb Daimler, who in 1887 patented an engine that ran by means of a vertical cylinder with gasoline injected through a carburetor? Though the business of who invented the automobile may have been cloudy, one thing was certain. It was the French who embraced the idea of automobile racing. It was in France back in 1894, that the first organized race was held.

That race had started in Paris and ended in Rouen, a distance of 126 kilometers. Twenty-five out of the field of sixty-nine made it past the 50-kilometer qualifying event, and represented manufacturers such as Peugeot, Panhard, De Deion as well as a number of amateur owners who built their own vehicles. The race that day had started from Porte Maillot, went through the Bois de Boulogne, and six hours and forty-eight minutes later ended when Count Jules-Albert de Dion entered Rouen.

Racing had come a long way since then, when the winning speed of a similar open road race had been a blistering 17 kilometers per hour. These days, many of the better-made (and better-maintained) automobiles could attain speeds well beyond 100 kilometers per hour. However, it took more than speed to negotiate roads. There were no specially built courses for these vehicles, and their routes often took them down country lanes where hazards could include flocks of sheep and other farm animals. Dealing with these animals was often a serious matter, as hitting a cow could not only severely damage both cow and driver, but would leave the driver to face an irate farmer as well. Worse yet were the onlookers who had a bad habit of dashing into the middle of the road to get a better look at the motorcars as they approached and who gave little thought to how much harm the impact of one of these roaring monster could do to a body. Why, back in May, the French government had stepped in and called a halt to a race from Paris to Madrid, which had turned into some kind of demolition derby. By the time the front-runners had reached Bordeaux, more than half the cars had crashed and eight people had been left dead, including Marcel Renault, racing car driver and industrialist, and co-founder with his brothers of the famous automobile manufacturer named after them. In fact, open road racing had been banned after that, and it was only because of the political clout wielded by the organizers that this race was being allowed. Not knowing when they would have a chance to see another such event, the citizens of Paris were going to make the most of this one!

Many were claiming that there hadn't been this much excitement in Paris since the turn of the century. A carnival atmosphere surrounded the Bois, with vendors hawking wares such as souvenirs, hot chocolate, fresh baguettes and roasted chestnuts. Men carrying sandwich boards wended their way through the throngs, advertising variety shows, popular restaurants, and other diversions. Firepots had been set out on street corners to ward off the autumn chill, and the festive flames added to the excitement.

Although barely past three in the morning, the park was brilliant as day. Paris was, after all, the "The City of Lights." There were the street lamps (both gas and electrical) providing basic illumination, and many of the buildings and exhibits were also lit for the occasion. Most pedestrians and bicyclists carried lanterns with them, and there were lights affixed to the racing vehicles, too. In fact, many places were bright enough to read a book by and more than bright enough for drivers to make last-minute adjustments to their vehicles, which was what Vincent was doing at this very moment.

The de Chagny family stood nearby watching him with interest. Raoul especially was keen on learning more about his son's fascination, and strained to hear what was being said. The younger daughters had been allowed to stay up all night, with expectations that they would sleep on the train all the way to Bordeaux. Two heavy-eyed girls in matching fur-trimmed velvet coats leaned sleepily against the vicomte, while his wife and eldest daughter stood at attention nearby, watching Vincent with a mixture of pride at his daring and concern for his safety. Even the normally placid Erik couldn't help but smile at such a charming picture of family loyalty and devotion. He headed towards the de Chagnys, swinging his walking stick in one hand and guiding Aurelia through the masses with the other, when a familiar voice caught his attention. It was Édouard, with his clerk Barthlebe hot on his heels.

"It seems all of Paris has turned out tonight," Erik said, nodding at the pair. "Don't tell me you're catching the train to Bordeaux, too."

"You should be so lucky," Bruguière replied. "We have work to do, unlike you gentlemen of leisure." He turned on the charm with his goddaughter. "My dear, may I say that I have never seen you look lovelier. How does one remain beautiful at such an ungodly hour?"

Aurelia pecked him on the cheek and beamed at Barthlebe. She twirled a little to show off her new ensemble, its stylish black and white stripes making it ideal for a day at the races. "My friend, Vincent, is racing," she said excitedly. She pointed him out as discreetly as possible.

Bruguière regarded Vincent's vehicle with the same air of objective detachment he used in the courtroom. "It's very…modern."

"Indeed it is," Erik said agreeably, "but I don't imagine you came out here at three in the morning to discuss automobiles."

"Are you so sure?" Édouard stared at his clerk. "The truth is, I was dragged out of peaceful slumber by a detective. What was his name? Ah, yes. Boisneuf. Seems my offices were broken into shortly after Barthlebe locked up for the night."

"Broken into? Why would anyone break into a law office?" Erik asked, his curiosity piqued. "Was anything stolen?"

Barthlebe looked up, the strain of the evening's events showing in his lined face, and buttoned his coat collar tight around his neck. "Nothing of any consequence, but there was some damage to the file cabinets. Fortunately, we keep all of our important documents and archives locked up in a caged area, since they contain confidential information. The thief will be very surprised to learn that all he's gained for his effort was a box of old correspondence destined for the burn bin. Envelopes, mostly. Nothing of any consequence." He heaved a sigh. "It was probably a vagrant looking for cash or something of value that he could easily pawn. Boisneuf thinks the charwoman interrupted the robbery and scared the man off when she turned on the lights in the hallway."

Édouard wore a pained expression. "Whoever he was, he owes me a window. Fool! He broke my window on his way out, when all he had to do was go out the way he came in. The poor woman would hardly have challenged him over rubbish. And it was my favorite window, too."

"You must remember to tip that good woman come Christmastime," Erik said, stifling a laugh. "You know," he added as an afterthought, "I could rig something up for you, something that would prevent further intrusions."

"A booby trap? Yes, that's a marvelous idea, Erik," Édouard said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "I can only imagine what you've got in mind. It would probably decapitate either Barthlebe or me—or perhaps that good charwoman, once we've forgotten all about it in a few months' time."

Erik shrugged. "Don't blame me if the perpetrator returns and cleans out your stash of expensive cigars next time." He grinned as the attorney recoiled at the suggestion.

"Oh, look!" Aurelia said, tugging at her father's arm and brimming with excitement. "Vincent is waving to us. He wants us to come over!"

The foursome made their way over to the preparation area, where the de Chagny family was already gathering. Introductions were made, and Bruguière and Barthlebe wished Vincent best of luck before taking their leave. "We're going to work our way back to the starting line," Édouard explained. "We'll be cheering for you." The two of them tipped their hats and disappeared into the crowd.

"I would like you to meet my co-pilot, Marc," Vincent announced, dragging a man dressed from head to toe in rugged clothing made for a long race, a full-length duster atop layers and layers of woolens. He doffed his cap in deference to the ladies and stuffed his goggles into a deep pocket.

The young man was exotic looking, with dark eyes and hair, and a skin tone that hinted at the Mediterranean. Holding out a grease-stained hand, he blushed when he realized how grimy it was. He wiped it on his coat, realized that did little good, and laughed out loud before dropping his hand at his side. "Marcel Marceau," he mumbled by way of introducing himself.

"He doesn't say much," said Vincent, giving his co-pilot a good-natured slap on the back, "but he knows how to read a map and he's the greatest mechanic who ever lived. And what's more, he's studying at the Sorbonne," he added, after seeing the interest Moerogis was taking in his handsome friend.

"The Sorbonne?" Clementine inquired politely. "What are you studying?"

"Fine arts," the young man replied, smiling at the look of surprise on their faces. He took a step closer to the pretty young woman who batted her lashes at him, but the blast of a horn alerted them to the time. "Vince, that's the fifteen minute warning. We have to get a move on." He nodded to Vincent's entourage and returned to the task of stowing away equipment as racing officials began to clear pedestrians from the racecourse.

Raoul gave his son a fatherly pat on the shoulder, admonished him to drive safely, and shook his hand before stepping aside so that Clementine could give their son a quick hug. "I'm proud of you," she whispered in his ear. Moerogis, Camille, and Zoé were next in line, giving him quick kisses and bidding him best of luck, and suddenly, there was no one on the planet but himself and Aurelia.

She offered him a long white silk scarf that she had embroidered with her initials in thread the color of champagne. He held it to his lips briefly and inhaled the scent of her perfume that clung it. It was a fresh and youthful fragrance that held the promise of spring, and at that moment, the night air no longer seemed chilly. In fact, it was downright warm. Vincent loosened his coat and looped the scarf around his neck. "Thank you," he said with a rakish grin. "When we get to Bordeaux, I'll be looking for you at the finish line."

Soon, the cars were assembled at the starting area. Because there were so many automobiles, they took off in groups. Otherwise, they would not have all been able to fit on the road at the same time. The cars were grouped according to class (Vincent's 45-horsepower Turcat-Méry was in the heavy car class) and from there the drivers drew numbers to determine their starting order. Vincent was fortunate to go out in the first group. The de Chagnys and the Delacortes stood by, waving and cheering their driver on. Once the last of the two-hundred-plus entrants sped away, Raoul picked up Zoé, who was asleep on her feet, and rubbed her back as she nestled her head on his shoulder. "It's off to the train for us. You sent your luggage ahead, I take it?" he asked Erik.

"Yes, it's all there. Thanks again for arranging this…outing. It ought to be very interesting."

"I want everyone to be comfortable. I have arranged for private sleeping cars, one for the girls, one for you—and Aurelia, if she'd prefer to stay with you—and one for Clemmie and myself. For the return trip, we have accommodations for Vincent as well."

This was royal treatment, indeed. The vicomte was sparing no expense for this excursion, and Erik was uncharacteristically at a loss for words. "You are a generous host," he said at last. Whether Raoul could hear him over the raucous throng was questionable. The women stayed close to the men in a tight knot, hoping to avoid being jostled in the crush. Most of the onlookers dispersed quickly and headed to their homes, but a large number made their way towards the rail station on the Paris-to-Bordeaux line.

The Bois was so crowded with people from all walks of life that they never even noticed the raggedy man who trailed behind them as they threaded their way towards the Gare d'Orleans.

-0-0-0-


	51. Chapter 51

**To Be Loved**  
**Chapter 51**

March 28, 2011

_Note: My apologies for not getting this posted over the weekend. No good reason to offer. I just plain forgot!_

_"Security is mostly a superstition…. Life is either a daring adventure, or it is nothing."_  
Helen Keller

-0-0-0-

"That was a close one!" Marc yelled straining to be heard over the roar of the powerful 45 horsepower Turcat-Méry. He shot a nervous glance at Vincent, who had narrowly avoided losing control of the vehicle as he fought off the pack and rounded a tight curve. With no doors or a roof or anything else to hold them in their seats, pilots gripped the steering wheels and tillers and copilots clutched the side rails for dear life. Whoever made up the old saying about all's fair in love and war should have added racing, too. Nor did it help that the vehicle was brand new and Vincent, for all his experience behind the wheel, was still learning how it handled. In spite of this, his concentration on the road – and the surprises it held – was unflappable.

"It will be better once we're out of the city and away from all these people!" he shouted to Marc. The distinctive roar from behind alerted them that a Panhard was closing in on them. "Hang on!" he cried. The ear flaps of his fur-lined helmet flew in the wind as they sped on.

Marc's normally dark complexion was taking on a slightly pallid hue. The danger of taking these tight corners at breakneck speed had been exciting when the two automobilists were testing their speed on a country road with no one else around, but now that the race had begun, he was having second thoughts. It wasn't that he lacked faith in Vincent's driving abilities, but until this point, he had only fixed the cars, never raced them. The front wheels hit a bump, and both men lost their seats for a moment. "Perhaps we should have taken it for a few more practice drives," the méchanicien offered tentatively.

Vincent only laughed. "No going back now!" He was well aware that at top speeds sometimes reaching over 100 kilometers per hour, his reflexes needed to be catlike; his attention must not waver even for a second from the road. One false move and it could be all over for the both of them. Racing was a dangerous sport and as some would find out today, even a lethal one, but at this moment, Vincent had never felt more alive.

-0-0-0-

By the time the last of the vehicles peeled away from the starting line, Zoé was fast asleep in her father's arms. The vicomte nodded to the uniformed chauffeur waiting to lead the party to the de Chagny limousine. "My motor-car is parked around the corner," he said to Erik. "It's too far to walk all the way to the Gare d'Orléans. You and Aurelia should ride with us. There's plenty of room. The girls don't take up much space." He shifted his daughter in his arms.

Erik gauged the massive crowd. The throng was spilling out into the streets surrounding the Bois, making them impassable. Why, it was difficult to move without bumping into someone. "We can hardly walk, much less drive a limousine through this. We'll never make it by automobile."

"The Bordeaux train will wait for us," Raoul said confidently. "My manservant has made arrangements."

"The train may wait, but the finish line won't. The race is underway, or had you forgotten?"

"What do you suggest?" Raoul asked rather curtly. "Walking all the way to the train station?"

"We could try _le Métropolitan_." Opened for the _Exposition universelle_ in 1900 and decorated in the art nouveau style, the underground train system was a model of modernity, providing the most rapid urban transportation in the world. "There's a station at the next corner. Most of these people," he said, waving his walking stick at the crowd, "came here to celebrate. Le métro may be our best means of escape, if we hope to make it to Bordeaux in time to see the finish."

"That is an excellent idea, monsieur," Clementine said, her indomitable spirit shining. "I've always wanted to try public transportation." She fixed her gaze on the corner that Erik had indicated, and screwed her courage to the sticking post. "Girls," she said, taking charge of her brood. "Hold hands and stay together. We don't want to lose anyone."

Aurelia and Moerogis stifled grins as Camille got between them and held tight to their hands. Clementine was clearly out of her element, but sallied forth with aplomb, the very image of grace under pressure. This was a grand adventure indeed, and she was determined to set a good example for the young ones. She smiled bravely as Raoul dismissed the driver.

They made it to the station relatively unscathed, a little frayed for having struggled through the crowded streets. As luck would have it, they were among the first to think of taking _le métro_, and each of them was able to find a seat in the first car. Unbeknownst to them, the Stranger had followed at a distance, keeping out of sight. Silent as a shadow, he climbed aboard the last car on the train. He knew where Delacorte was going. Now that the journey had begun, there was no chance of losing him.

As the traveling companions settled down for the ride to the Gare d'Orléans, the train pulled out of the station, its rocking and jolting causing Zoé to stir. Groggy, she stretched out her hand towards Erik. "Monsieur," she said in a sleep-slurred voice. "Do some magic."

Before Clementine could admonish her daughter for her cheekiness, Erik responded. His twisted mouth made a crooked grin as he extended his hand towards the child. "Shake my hand," he told her. "Go on, don't be shy. Give it a good shake."

She clasped his hand and shook it hard, squealing with delight as hard candies in brightly colored wrappers began to fall, first from his cuffs, then from behind his ears, out from under his hat. "Oh, monsieur! You are made of sweets from head to toe!" the child cried. Not only did Zoé scramble to catch the candy, but so did every other child on the train. There seemed to be mountains of the loot.

Raoul frowned at Erik, who smirked back at him. "Thanks, Erik. I suppose we can forget about getting any rest once they've had a few pounds of sugar," Raoul said dryly. "Our dentist thanks you, too."

"Is your father always like this?" Moerogis whispered to Aurelia. She beamed, clearly enjoying the company.

"What do you mean? Is he always full of surprises?" Aurelia asked playfully. "Father is usually very dignified, especially in comparison to the other people in our little Swedish village, but he likes children, and he likes to hear them laugh. When I was growing up, he always put on a show for my birthday and for special occasions like Midsummer. He called his performances _'Soirées fantastiques_.'" She smiled as pleasant memories filled her head. "Once a showman, always a showman. You know, he doesn't like to draw attention to himself, but I think that on occasion, he was so bored in Gamla Uppsala that he was willing to make the sacrifice. "

Erik relaxed in his seat with an air of smugness about him. "There's more to magic than simple tricks, you know. Real magic is an art form, drama at its finest. It's about convincing people that you have supernatural powers, that you can make the very elements bend to your will, make them yield to the power of your mind." He tapped his temple to make a point. "In my salad days, I had little to work with—mostly cards, ropes, and mirrors. Simple sleight of hand and illusion. Later, I had a mango pip that I would plant in an ordinary container, right in front of the audience, where it would grow and bloom and produce ripe fruit. That was my first experiment in automatons. It was so successful that my next venture involved a miniature baker about the size of a mouse, who would dart in and out of his store and produce real pastries that my assistants would pass out among the crowd. It wasn't long before I was traveling far from France and entertaining crowned heads of state…." His words trailed off. He hadn't spoken this much about himself in years, and it put him off kilter. Fortunately, they were nearing their stop. "Come," he said, rising and extending his arm to his daughter. "Bordeaux awaits."

-0-0-0-

The Gare d'Orléans was the gateway to southern France, and even though this train was chartered to go straight to Bordeaux without stopping, the trip would last about six hours, ample time for the travelers to rest, freshen up, and enjoy breakfast. Raoul's valet and Clementine's personal maid were already aboard, along with the governess to assist the girls. The staff would be supplemented by chambermaids provided by the railroad. Soon, the party of seven had gathered 'round the dining table in Raoul's private car, and were digging into a substantial meal.

"Mmmm," Camille said between ravenous bites. She rolled her big blue eyes with satisfaction. "These are the best eggs I've ever tasted." Before her was a repast including muffins, a tart of eggs with apples, mushrooms with bacon, and hot beignets, with plenty of juice, coffee, and hot chocolate to wash it down.

"This line is known for its chef," Clementine offered. "Even if Vincent weren't racing today, I think we'd make the trip simply for the pleasure of fine dining." She held her tongue as her delicate daughters tucked into their meal like hungry longshoremen. They were all famished. Even Erik was helping himself to second servings.

The vicomte was so disarmed by the apparent normalcy of the situation that he made a bold move. "While we are in Bordeaux, I plan to visit the Rothschild vineyard and restock the wine cellar. You're welcome to go with me, Erik, if you wish." He almost looked as though he meant it, until it dawned on him that asking Erik along might mean being alone with his one-time enemy, without Clementine as a buffer. Good Lord! What if the man went mad again? "Perhaps Clemmie will join us. You like that Château Mouton Rothschild very much, dear," he added nervously.

Erik cocked an eyebrow, taking note of the perspiration beading on Raoul's forehead. "Customarily, I limit myself to one small glass of Tokaj or cognac in the evening, and then only rarely." As Raoul breathed a sigh of relief, he added, "But I will take you up on your offer. I'd like to see these Rothschild vineyards," he said, plastering a forced smile across his face. "One hears so much about them these days."

"Splendid," Clementine said cheerfully. "I suggest you men make a day of it, while we women enjoy the shopping."

Raoul blinked, realizing what he'd just gotten himself into.

After breakfast, the weary travelers returned to their cars to rest before the train arrived at its destination. Raoul and Clementine had one car to themselves, while the de Chagny daughters had another, and Erik and Aurelia shared a third.

"Such luxury," Aurelia muttered, shaking her head at the extravagance. When she had traveled by train in the past, she had been privileged to enjoy a private sleeping compartment with berths that converted to benches for seating during the day.

"One could grow accustomed to it, I suppose," Erik said quietly. He stretched his long arms and legs, kissed Aurelia on the forehead, and retired for a nap. Before they knew it, they would be at their destination. They could only wonder what surprises lay in store for them at the hotel Raoul had chosen. Judging by present accommodations, they were in for a treat.

While the intrepid band of travelers rested their weary heads, the Stranger gloated over his own good fortune. The Gare d'Orléans had been swamped with last minute customers seeking train tickets to Bordeaux, people swept up in the excitement of the race but who hadn't been as well organized (or as well heeled) as the vicomte. They clamored for tickets, even going to such extremes as trying to bribe the conductors to allow them to board as "standing room only" passengers. Fisticuffs had broken out among a cluster of men who were determined to force their way aboard, and in the confusion, it had been easy for him to sneak onto the train. In fact, there had only been one snag, a porter who had discovered him hiding in the baggage car.

He peered down at the man's body, lifeless eyes staring back as he rifled through a flat-topped canvas trunk in search of clean clothes, tossing them aside. No, these would never do. They were much too common. He peered around the compartment and next chose a trunk with a Louis Vitton monogram, its unmistakable quality bespeaking the fine clothing that were surely locked inside. He pried the lock open with his switchblade and let his mind wander back in time to better days when he'd been well acquainted with the famous fashion house. The trademark pattern had changed, but not the quality.

Inside he found handmade leather shoes, accessories, and books. The Stranger tossed several items aside as he sifted through the contents, selecting the best of the best before sitting down to try on his plunder. Fortunately, the owner was about his size. These would do nicely. Nearby was a matching trunk that was likewise pried open and found to contain carefully folded shirts and undergarments, and a third one contained suits on wooden hangers and a heavy wool greatcoat. These clothes would help him blend into the fashionable crowd that would be greeting them in Bordeaux. He would be clean and warm, and his new clothes would allow him to go anywhere Delacorte might go without drawing unnecessary attention to himself. He liberally sprinkled himself with his unknowing benefactor's cologne then, pausing for a moment over the porter's lifeless body, splashed some on the corpse as well. In spite of the cold weather, the dead man reeked of manual labor. The Stranger was glad it was freezing cold inside the luggage car. It helped to keep the smell down.

He had grown accustomed to filth while imprisoned all those years on Devil's Island. Thanks to Delacorte, he'd grown accustomed to deprivation, sickness, and humiliations of every imaginable kind—and even some he'd never have imagined possible. Having his head shaved, for instance, and wearing prison stripes. Picking off fleas, ticks, and lice. Learning to cook and eat the tropical rats that overran the compound. It was amazing what a person could get used to, in order to survive.

Standing straight, he smoothed out the pleats in the waist of his stolen pants, and tucked in the tail of the tailored shirt. It felt good to dress well again. It reminded him of his old self, of the good old days before he'd been arrested for embezzlement.

At that moment, his stomach growled, reminding him that he had yet to eat today. Finding a seat on a stack of luggage, he turned his attention to the porter's lunch pail. Inside he found a raw onion, a bit of cheese, a crust of bread, and a bottle of cheap wine. It was peasant food, a working man's lunch, but he had eaten worse. He uncorked the bottle of wine and lifted it to his lips, confident that the next bottle he opened would be far better. Perhaps it would even be a decent Mouton from the Rothschild vineyard.

-0-0-0-

"Bedlam. Sheer bedlam." Erik surveyed the platform from the window and shook his head at the enthusiastic fans surging off the train. "I don't know what possessed us to participate in this insane journey."

"At least our luggage is being sent ahead to the Regent Grand Hotel," Aurelia said with irrepressible excitement. "Gigi—I mean, Moerogis—says it's in the city center, close to the finish line. Imagine what the crowds will be like there!"

He cringed at the thought of it. "There is a silver lining. The hotel is close to the _Quai Richelieu_. Tonight, once all this ballyhoo has died down, we can enjoy a nice stroll along _la rive Garonne_."

"Don't tell me. There's a 'fascinating bridge' or some other unique architectural point of interest that you want to see."

"Guilty as charged. _Le Pont de Pierre_, the old stone bridge, beckons to me."

She wrinkled her nose. "Why does this city look so…English? I thought they called it _le petit Paris_. It's as though we're in an entirely different country."

"Bordeaux was ruled by British invaders for many years. We have not yet gotten rid of them."

"Don't let the vicomtesse hear you say that. Vincent said she was raised in Britain. She'll think you don't like her."

"I shall make reference only to the 'English flair' of the locals, _les Bordelais_. My word of honor," he said, making the sign of an "x" over his heart. "Besides, Victor Hugo, the great writer, thought Bordeaux was more like a combination of Antwerp and Versailles. You have to go back several centuries to find the English in its history."

Aurelia stared at him, brimming with pride. "Father?" she asked softly. "Thank you for this. I know it mustn't be entirely comfortable for you, but thank you for burying the past and coming on this trip. It means the world to me."

"Then it's worth every moment."

On the platform, they rejoined the rest of the party and headed towards the porte-cochère, where several chartered limousines stood ready to whisk them to their destination. Along the way, Aurelia surprised them all by recognizing a familiar face in the crowd.

"Why, it's Jabes, the fire master from the conservatoire!" Hearing his name, a tall redheaded man turned and sought the person who had called to him.

He held a freckled-faced, ginger-haired girl who appeared to be about five years old in his arms, and a young woman who stood close by him held a tiny infant. "Mademoiselle Delacorte! What are you doing here in Bordeaux?"

"What is everyone doing here? We're here to see the race, of course! What brings you here?"

"Who wouldn't want to be here for the race? It's an historic occasion. Besides, I might learn something that I can apply to my bag of tricks at the conservatoire. You never know what might inspire the next new special effect—or the next opera. Imagine for a moment that somewhere, at this very moment, a composer is writing a libretto about bitter rivals who happen to be heroes of the racecourse. It would be a bold and modern story."

She wasn't sure if he was teasing her or not, but she remembered her manners. "This is my father," she said, making introductions. "And our friends, the de Chagnys. Their son, Vincent, is one of the racers!"

"Very commendable," he said politely, and then introduced his wife, Mitzi, and two children. "You know, Monsieur Delacorte, we've met before."

"My daughter mentioned you to me," Erik replied. "Look, whatever happened in Lille was a long time ago. We've…both of us…have come a long way. You've done well for yourself."

"Thanks to you. You gave me a fresh start."

"Let's not dwell on the past," Erik said firmly, obviously uncomfortable with the subject, and that was the end of the discussion.

"Why, this _bébé_ can't be more than a month old," Clementine cooed as she lifted the swaddling blanket and peeked at the sleeping infant. "She's absolutely beautiful, just like her mother. But shouldn't you be resting, my dear?"

"My parents live here," Mitzi replied. "We'll be staying with them for a few days so that they can get acquainted with their new granddaughter."

"Her father is the head concierge of the Regent Grand," Jabes said with more than a hint of pride.

"The Regent? That's where we're staying. That is, if we ever get there," said Raoul, scowling at the crowded platform.

"Follow me. I know a shortcut," Jabes said. "We'll be staying with Mitzi's folks. Perhaps we'll see you again at the finish line." Like little ducklings all in a row, the entourage followed him to the front of the building where they parted ways, oblivious to the man in the fine tailored suit who tagged along at a discreet distance behind them.

-0-0-0-

The Regent Grand Hotel was every bit as elegant as Aurelia had imagined it would be. It was the most magnificent luxury hotel in the city, featuring lavish décor that set a new standard for opulence. Known for superior service, the staff prided itself on anticipating a guest's every need while remaining unobtrusive, discreet, and available to provide any service at a moment's notice.

Gigi was especially excited over the spa and the Roman bath. "Later on, we can take the waters," she said eagerly. "It's very fashionable, you know."

"Bathing?" Aurelia echoed. "Indoors? I didn't…I mean…I don't have a bathing costume with me."

"Silly! The staff will take care of you. They think of everything." She thought a moment and added, "But you know, there are plenty of shops nearby. I'm sure one of them has ready-to-wear bathing costumes. We should go shopping!"

"Do we have time before the race finishes?" She looked questioningly at her father.

"You have a few hours before anyone should be crossing the finish line," he said with confidence. "Do you think you can manage to buy out all the shops before six o'clock? That would allow plenty of time before the cars start arriving."

"We'll do our best," she said, patting her reticule. She knew by the weight of it that her father had made sure she had all the necessary resources for an expedition of this sort.

"We'll meet you at the grandstand at six," Gigi promised. "We'll stay inside the historic district—I think they call it the 'Golden Triangle'—so there's no chance of getting lost."

With the elder girls off on a mission, Zoé and Camille were entrusted to the governess, who promised to spend the afternoon by taking them on a ferry ride to see the sights. Erik tried to excuse himself on the thin pretense of catching up with Jabes, but Clementine would hear none of it. "We plan to explore the city," she explained, "and we want you to come too. We're in the heart of the historic district, with the Grand Théâtre, home of the Opéra National de Bordeaux right under our noses. Oh, don't deny it: You must be dying to see it. Otherwise, you'll hole up in your room for the rest of the day, reading books and sipping that strong coffee you like so well. The sun is shining and the birds are singing. Wouldn't you rather enjoy this beautiful day in the company of good friends?"

He and Raoul locked eyes momentarily. Is that what they were? Good friends? "Of course," Erik heard himself saying. Damned if the woman—Raoul's wife—didn't remind him of Christine. "How can I resist when you put it that way?"

Clementine took Erik's proffered arm, and Raoul followed, ever the dutiful husband. In spite of himself, Erik enjoyed the outing. How could he not, with such a warm and charming woman on his arm? And a beautiful one at that, even if he did say so himself. She could not hold a candle to Christine, of course, but that made it easy for him to enjoy her charming personality. Erik had no interest in her, other than pleasant conversation. Clementine, Vicomtesse de Chagny, was at ease with him in a way only one other woman had ever been, so he found himself basking in her company…and doing his best to ignore her husband.

Along the way, a well-dressed man bumped rather clumsily into Erik. From the gray of his hair and the lines deeply etched into his face, it was obvious that the man was at least in his sixties, maybe more. He was also thin as a rail and white as a ghost, with the telltale odor of consumption clinging to him in spite of the expensive cologne he wore. "Beg your pardon," Erik said quickly, brushing off the man's lapels, but the fellow said not a word in reply. Their eyes met briefly, before the man shuffled on. Erik couldn't shake the feeling that he'd seen him before…but where?

"What an odd duck," Raoul muttered, while Clementine was focused on the opera house. "He practically went out of his way to run into you. Can't help thinking I should know that chap, though. Did he look familiar to you?"

"This place is a circus," Erik grumbled. He checked his pockets to make sure his wallet was still there, but apparently, the peculiar man was not a pickpocket. At least not a good one. "With all the hoopla, who is to say? We might have seen him a dozen times today, between the station and the hotel."

Clementine was the first to see the telegraph office. "Officials have set up a wire relay so that we can get the latest reports from points along the race course. Let's go find out who's winning," she said eagerly. "I do hope it's Vincent!"

-0-0-0-

"Pump it faster! You're almost there!"

Marc smirked at Vincent who, he noticed, seemed to be favoring his right side. Must've taken a good bruise to that side, he figured. "I'm pumping as fast as I can. If you think you can do better," he said, nodding at the hand operated air pump, "then have a go at it."

Vincent pretended to be properly chastised. "Sorry. I know you're doing the best you can." He looked about at the various tools spread out on the ground as Marc finished inflating the tire. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Yes. Next time, don't hit the pothole so hard that you blow a tire out. These Dunlops are good, but they're not indestructible, and this is the only spare we have."

"Maybe next time, I should use those corded Michelin tires."

"Just because they're French doesn't necessarily mean they're better."

"André Michelin swears by them."

This time, Marc snorted. "Of course he does. It's his company!"

Both men laughed, but the time for levity was soon over. Marc finished fitting the spare tire onto the wheel and was in the process of putting the ruined one into the trunk while Vincent began collecting the tools they'd had to use for other minor repairs. "Is it my fault that damned cow decided to wander onto the road just as we turned the corner?"

They both shot a withering glare at the cow that was munching contentedly in the pasture that abutted the road. The animal had appeared out of nowhere, causing Vincent to slam on the brakes and send the car swerving smack into a pothole, resulting in the blown right front tire and some minor damage to the front suspension system. Thankfully, they had a significant lead on their nearest competitor, Jean-Claude Levassor and his Panhard, but the longer the repairs took, the smaller the lead. If they weren't careful, they'd lose it altogether and have to spend the rest of the race trying to play catch up, and Levassor wasn't known for playing nice.

Marc chuckled. "Yeah. Do you think Levassor paid the animal so it would purposely get in our way?" He gave a final tug on the lug, making sure it was snug, and handed the wrench to Vincent, who tucked it away in the toolbox. "Well, we're good to go," he said, giving the new tire a kick for luck and Vincent a tap on the arm.

"Ouch!"

"What's the matter? You suddenly develop tender skin?" The two men enjoyed an easy camaraderie, and it wasn't unusual for them to trade friendly insults.

"Not really," said Vincent, wincing. "It's just…I think I did something to my shoulder when we came to a sudden stop." He made a few tentative moves with his shoulder to check his mobility and pain threshold.

"I thought you might have hurt yourself. Hold still and let me see."

Vincent motioned his friend away. "It's fine, Mother."

"No, it isn't. If it was 'fine,' your face wouldn't turn white as your mother's best linens when you tried to move it. Now shut up, and let me take a look. And trust me, I won't be nearly as gentle as your mother would be!" Marc was careful as he manipulated the shoulder to determine the extent of the injury.

_"Nique ta mere!"_ Vincent howled.

"Watch your language."

"Well, it hurts!"

"That's because you've dislocated it. I couldn't see it before, thanks to all the leather you're wearing." Vincent let out another yowl—as much for effect as for any real pain—when Marc popped the shoulder back into place. "We'll need to immobilize it until we can get you to a doctor." Marc unwrapped the scarf around his neck and began to make a sling.

"Put that back on," snapped Vincent. "We've got a race to finish, and there's no way I can drive with my arm all tied up." He strode purposefully back to the car and hopped in, ignoring the throbbing pain. "It doesn't hurt so bad now that it's back in place. Besides, I'll need both hands on the wheel."

"You sure you don't want me to drive?"

"What? And let you take all the glory when we cross the finish line first? Get in, and let's get going. If I'm not mistaken, I think that cloud of dust over the hill there is Levassor himself."

-0-0-0-

Throughout the afternoon, reports started coming in from the various stops along the route. Great racing names like Mills, Holbein, Huret, Lesna, Linton struggled hard that day. One day, their names would be forgotten, but not today. Today, they were the stuff of legends, gladiators on wheels. Like warriors of old, they fought bitter battles over the long stretches of road, each waiting for the other to make the tiniest of mistakes, and then pounce on it. Ominous rumors floated about, and spectators reveled in lurid stories of death and fearful accidents, of drivers killed and spectators maimed.

But, at this moment, Aurelia and Gigi put the race out of mind, and across the Golden Triangle, the two of them were window-shopping. They had been successful in their acquisitions, and had sent a few packages on to the hotel ahead of them. Aurelia had found a burgundy prêt-a-porter waistcoat that would look perfect on her father, and a meerschaum pipe carved as the head of a Persian shah. Though her father did not smoke, she thought it would look dashing and couldn't resist the temptation to buy it. She had also found a lovely blue scarf the exact shade of Vincent's eyes, which she wrapped around her long neck even though it did not complement her ensemble. It reminded her of Vincent, and that was all that mattered. Despite the fearful stories circulating among the crowds awaiting the drivers, she was certain that Vincent would arrive hardy and whole.

A young lad approached Aurelia and held out a sealed envelope. "A man in a mask said to give this to you," he said, and melted into the crowd.

She turned the envelope over and recognized at once her father's handwriting. "This must be important," she told her friend before tearing open the seal. She read the contents silently:

_Come immediately. Meet me at the foot of the Pont de Pierre. Tell no one where you are going. I have a wonderful surprise for your young man—one beyond his imagination—but in order to pull it off, you must promise that you will tell no one where you are going or who you are meeting._

Aurelia clasped her friend in a quick embrace and kissed her goodbye. "Do forgive me, but something important has come up. Can you make your way back to the hotel alone?"

"Of course, but what is the matter? Is everything all right?"

"Everything is fine," she said, "but I must go at once. Trust me; I'll join you at the grandstand no later than six." Seeing that Gigi was concerned, Aurelia tapped the note and whispered in her ear, "Don't tell anyone. It's a surprise for your brother."

"How exciting!" She stared at her friend's back as Aurelia disappeared into the crowd, watching until she could no longer see the auburn coif and the wide-brimmed hat covering it. A final glimpse of the sapphire blue scarf, and then Aurelia simply vanished in the crowd.

-0-0-0-

By three o'clock, the grandstands had begun to fill, and by four, all hope of finding a seat was gone. Fortunately, the de Chagny name guaranteed a reserved box in the prime viewing area, and from this vantage point, Erik could see far and wide. Raoul's valet had prepared a picnic hamper with champagne and glasses, which would be used to toast Vincent and Marc regardless of whether they won or lost the race. All that mattered was that they give it their best. At the last report, the young men had been in a minor accident and there was some speculation that Vincent had broken his arm. Clementine struggled to maintain a stiff upper lip, but when she thought no one was watching, she brushed the tears away.

Shortly after five, the governess arrived with Zoé and Camille. It was impossible to tell who among them was more haggard, the girls or the woman. The children had put the governess through her paces during their outing, that much was certain. Soon, the sun would be setting and darkness would be upon them on this moonless night.

By half past six, electric illumination flooded the grandstand and the finish line, its harsh glare causing many to shield their eyes and grumble about the unnatural brightness. By now, Erik realized that Aurelia was late returning from her outing and had begun to wonder what had detained her. She hadn't come all this way to shop. Whatever was keeping her from the race must be important. He scanned the crowd for signs of his daughter, and nearly shouted with relief when he saw de Chagny's eldest girl making her way to the box. A white hat bobbed along behind her, but it was not quite as he remembered it. Aurelia's hat had been fresh and bright; this one looked much the worse for wear. He was beginning to worry that Aurelia had been in some sort of mishap, when the roar of automobiles momentarily distracted him. It turned out to be nothing more than a young man showing off his shiny new vehicle to an admiring young lady, not one of the drivers in the race.

He glanced again at the white hat and realized this time that it wasn't Aurelia after all, but a stranger. She must be close by, though, he reassured himself. He knew his daughter. She would never have allowed herself to be separated from the de Chagny girl, not in a strange city. Suddenly, the fragrance of irises wafted over him. He turned to find the source. Had someone used perfume? In public? No, that was impossible. It was a familiar scent, and it told a secret: Christine's spirit was with him. He puzzled over the significance. She had only ever come to him when he needed her.

"Hurry, Moerogis!" Raoul called to his daughter, breaking the spell. "You and Aurelia are about to miss the finish! According to the telegrapher, the first pack of the vehicles is less than 60 kilometers away."

She redoubled her efforts and was almost at the box when the first car sped across the finish line, but soon it was discovered that the man was nothing but a prankster who had only driven the last ten kilometers. The family sighed in disappointment while others, less inhibited in displaying their ire, showered boos down upon the man and pelted him with leftover bits of picnic lunches.

"That should teach him for trying to steal someone else's thunder," said Clementine.

"I'm sorry I'm late, but it was nearly impossible to get here," Gigi offered.

Erik was in no mood for civility. "Where's my daughter?" he asked abruptly.

The girl glanced at the sea of spectators. "She…we were separated. She said she'd meet us here, at the grandstand. I'm sure she'll be along any moment."

Over the next half hour, there were a number of other false alarms, but finally the first glimpse of dust clouds could be seen coming over the horizon. Blazing headlamps soon became apparent, far off dots of flame shining in the darkness. The roiling dust cloud must be one of the racers! Closer it came, the yellow-brown cloud growing in size, now accompanied by the sound of roaring engines. At last, the silhouette of two vehicles could be seen battling it out, tooth and nail. It was nigh impossible to make out who the drivers were; they looked almost identical in their grime-covered caps, goggles and dusters, but it was easy to see that one motor car was a Turcat-Méry, and the other a Panhard. Even so, the vehicles looked alike, both mud-spattered, the colors their cars had sported at the beginning of the race now indistinguishable, both having encountered their share of road hazards.

The two behemoths were closing on the home stretch. At last, they were near enough for details to be made out. The grandstand erupted in deafening shouts of encouragement when they saw it was de Chagny and Levassor behind the wheels. Many last-minute wagers were made as both men headed toward the finish line, neither willing to give an inch. Fenders touched briefly and the Panhard had to either ease up or go flying out of control. Its short-lived loss of momentum was all the Turcat-Méry needed to speed by, the crowd roaring its appreciation.

"It's Vincent!" squealed Camille, jumping with joy as her brother edged the other driver past the finish line, the waning sunlight replaced by artificial illumination.

"He did it!" rose the cry from the rest de Changy family. "Vincent won!"

The crowd spilled out of the grandstand and surrounded the winner as Vincent pulled his car to the winner's circle, accepting the congratulations and backslaps of well-wishers, wincing slightly as he climbed out of the car. Marc and he gripped each other in a congratulatory bear hug, and danced around in a circle as adoring admirers fought their way closer. The two of them were covered from head to toe in grit from the long drive. When they removed their goggles, the pale skin around their eyes was a stark contrast to the dark grime. The comical effect was that they looked as though they were wearing domino masks.

His mother didn't care about the dust from the road rubbing off onto her, but clasped her son in an enthusiastic embrace. "We heard that you injured your arm. It's not broken, is it?"

Vincent flashed his mother his most engaging smile and slipped his arm into the sling Marc tossed to him, the one that he had refused to wear while driving.

"Don't worry," he said as soon as he saw the strain on his mother's face. "You poor dear. Don't be frightened! It's only a slight dislocation. Nothing that won't heal. The road was rougher than I expected in some parts." His voice was booming with the thrill of victory, the joy evident in his carefree laughter and the enormous grin on his face. "Next time, though, I'll ask Dad to lash me into the seat like a sailor tied to the mast of his ship during a typhoon!" He wasn't joking, either.

"You can say that again," Marc said, rubbing his backside for emphasis. He blushed when he realized that Vincent's eldest sister was watching him and had seen exactly where he had placed his hands. She seemed lost in thought, smiling enigmatically.

Erik congratulated the two young men as soon as he had a chance. It had taken Clementine several minutes to hug her son, such was her relief at his safe delivery from the perilous journey; even so, it came as no surprise when he heard Vincent saying, "Where's Aurelia?"

Everyone turned to Gigi for an answer. "She made me promise not to tell," the girl stammered. "She said it was important that I keep the secret."

"She made you promise not to tell what, exactly," Erik said, struggling to stem the rising tide of panic that flooded every fiber of his being.

"A messenger boy brought her a note. She said it was a surprise." Seeing the blank stares all around her, she added, "A surprise for Vincent. She said she would meet us all here by six o'clock."

"Disingenuous child," Erik growled. "It's past seven, and my daughter is missing. She could be hurt, lying in a ditch somewhere."

"Don't be absurd," Raoul said quickly, trying diffuse Erik's volatile temper. "Aurelia is an intelligent young woman. She probably got caught up in the crowd, knew she'd miss the finish, and decided to meet us at the hotel instead of here."

Vincent was crestfallen. "I appreciate that she wanted to surprise me, but I'd much rather she had seen the finish." He puzzled over it. "What could have been so important that she'd miss the race? Oh, well. There's nothing for it except to go back to the hotel. Maybe we'll see her along the way."

"You go on," Marc said. "Have that arm looked at. I'll stay with the Turcat-Méry until the crowds disperse, clean her down, then drive her to the hotel's garage. Stay for one photograph, though; journalists from _Le Matin_ and _L'echo_ are clamoring for a word from you."

"Thanks," Vincent said. "Don't forget: Dinner's at nine. The Old Man is buying, right, Dad?"

Raoul's cheeks flushed. He really hated that sobriquet. "Your mother has arranged a celebration in your honor. No doubt Aurelia's putting some finishing touches on the plans, and is eagerly awaiting our arrival at the Regency." He looked at Erik, more than a little apprehensive about the man's reaction.

Clementine stepped in. "That must be it. Why didn't I think of it before? Aurelia must be at the hotel, supervising the arrangements for the dinner party."

"I hope so," Erik said. With effort, and for Clementine's sake, he added, "Yes. You're right. Of course, you're right. She's at the hotel, preparing a surprise for Vincent." The floral fragrance so dear to him hung heavy in the air. The thought that anything bad might have happened to his daughter was simply unacceptable….

…and too terrifying to contemplate.

-0-0-0-


	52. Chapter 52

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 52**

April 3, 2011  
HDL

_"You behold a range of exhausted volcanoes; not a flame flickers on a single pallid crest; but the situation is still dangerous: there are occasional earthquakes, and ever and anon the dark rumblings of the sea."_~Benjamin Disraeli

-0-0-0-

He reminded himself to walk slowly and to look directly at the people around him while searching for his daughter's familiar face in the sea of strangers surrounding him. _It must be as de Chagny's wife says,_ he told himself. _Aurelia is merely on a lark, and there is no cause for alarm._

Once or twice, he thought he caught a glimpse of her, but each time it turned out to be wishful thinking, his hopes rising only to be crushed. Progress across the historic town square was delayed by the crush of fans reaching out to young Vincent, begging for autographs. Some requested personal photographs with the hero of the moment, and held out newfangled Kodak devices capable of adding colors to the images they captured. Erik glowered. They were only holding him back, this entire de Chagny brood with governess, maid, and valet in tow. They were like a flotilla—a very awkward and slow-moving one at that—and his patience was running thin.

"Please excuse me," he said briskly, "but I will walk on and meet you at the hotel shortly."

"Of course," Clementine replied pleasantly. "I can hardly wait to see the surprise your daughter has in store."

Taking his leave, Erik set out on his own through the thick knot of automobile enthusiasts. Souvenir vendors hawking their wares clogged the concourse. People were jammed shoulder to shoulder in the crowded square, barely able to move. This situation was like a powder keg. He'd seen crowds like this before, on his travels in the Orient. All it would take to start a stampede would be for one person to fall and be trampled. They'd have a panic on their hands, a disaster of unimaginable proportions.

The roar of automobile engines in the distance told him that the race was far from over. Vincent had made excellent time, but it would be hours before the rest of the motorcars crossed the finish line. Some spectators coursed forward to cheer on the remaining drivers, while others fought against the current to exit the square. Erik was a juggernaut and bullied his way through the lot of them. One young rowdy took offense and yelled, "Watch what yer doin'!" but Erik brushed him aside and paid him no heed.

It took him nearly an hour to reach the hotel, by which time he reckoned Aurelia was nearly two hours overdue. The Regent's doormen had their work cut out for them keeping the entrances clear for guests. Word had gotten out that Vincent de Chagny and Marc Marceau would be staying there, and eager fans were already swarming to catch a glimpse of the winning pair.

Erik looked for a way around the mob, ducking around back and entering through the kitchen, much to the surprise of the hotel staff. "Official business," he said as he cut through the food preparation area. Table after table was laden with the ingredients for endless courses of fine dining, and mouth-watering aromas wafted on the air, but the gourmet delights were wasted on Erik. He thought only of finding his daughter. "I should never have let her go off by herself," he muttered. "Not in a strange town." A thousand questions niggled at the back of his mind: _What if she is lost? Does she remember the name of the hotel where we are staying? Does she have enough money for cab fare? Would she go to the police? She's only a girl of nineteen, a mere child. How could I have let this happen?_

He strode purposely through the workrooms of the distinguished hotel, ignoring the waiters who were busy making preparations for tonight's service. The sharp odor of silver polish stung his nostrils as he passed by a row of shining ewers and platters. Directly ahead lay the restaurant, bustling with footmen measuring the place settings and floral arrangements with rulers to ensure that nothing was missing or out of place. Snippets of ferns and fall flowers were artfully placed along the length of each table, every tendril carefully set to appear as if it had grown there naturally. Ordinarily, Erik would have appreciated such attention to detail, but what he needed right now were answers.

"Just the man I wanted to see," he said to the maître d'hôtel, who listened to Erik's questions as if he had no other concerns on this, their busiest night of the year. No, the man replied solemnly, Mademoiselle had not arrived. He was not aware of any 'surprises' that were being planned. Yes, he would certainly have known if any arrangements had been made that required his assistance. Perhaps the young lady had something more intimate in mind, he suggested. Something that did not require his service. Perhaps she had merely obtained a gift for her friends and would be bringing it with her tonight.

Frustrated by the lack of information, Erik grunted a _merci_ and headed for the last place he knew to look. Walking past the bank of elevators, he went straight to the stairs, taking them two at a time until he reached the floor where their suite was located. The hallway seemed to have gotten longer while he was at the race, and he quickened his pace. He found himself unconsciously counting each step, the sursurration of the lush carpet running underneath his heels providing a quiet cadence to his stride.

At last, the worried father arrived at his suite. He tried the doorknob, satisfied when it would not turn. If his daughter had returned here, she had at least remembered his warning to keep the doors locked. He took out his hotel key and opened the door wide, half expecting to find her sitting there on the sofa wearing a Cheshire cat grin and wondering whatever could be troubling him, but the parlor was empty.

"Aurelia?" he called. Long legs carried him quickly to her bedroom door. He rapped the gleaming wood with his knuckles, and when there was no answer, he let himself in. The room looked exactly as he remembered it; there was no evidence that she'd been back since they had gone out for the afternoon. He looked about the suite for a note. Perhaps she had come and gone, and he'd find a cheery message telling him she'd be waiting downstairs. That must be it. They had merely crossed paths.

A knock at the door sent his heart into his throat. That's it! She'd lost her key! He flung the door open only to find the vicomtesse waiting at the threshold.

"No sign of her?" Clementine asked, her knit brow betraying her own concern. "Perhaps she went out on some last-minute errand. After all, what can happen in Bordeaux?"

"You'll let me know at once if she comes to your suite, won't you," Erik stated. His grim countenance spoke volumes.

"I'm sure it's nothing. Has she changed clothes for supper?" When Erik only responded with a blank stare, she sighed sweetly. "Did you check her wardrobe? If the dress she was wearing earlier is there, then she has been here and gone back out. If not, then she's sure to come here to change into an evening gown. She won't miss the supper, not after all this effort she's put into it." She leaned closer. "Would you like me to check? If you're anything like my husband, you won't have a clue what Aurelia was wearing this morning. You men are all alike."

He nodded and stepped aside, silently inviting her to come inside the rooms. He knew exactly what Aurelia had been wearing. It was her clever black and white ensemble, perfect for the occasion. She had talked of little else for days before the journey, but Erik did not mention it to the vicomtesse. He watched in silence as the woman walked into the suite and seemed to take possession of it. That was how Clementine was; wherever she went, it was as though she belonged there. With any luck, she'd notice something Erik had missed, and the riddle of Aurelia's absence would be solved.

Clementine glanced over his daughter's bedroom and pointed out that the girl had laid out her clothes for the evening. "Do you realize what this means?" she asked. "She hasn't been back yet. She'll soon be here to freshen up and change clothes, which, come to think of it, is exactly what I should be doing right now."

Erik tried to speak but no words would come out. His mouth was as dry as the Gobi Desert. He cleared his throat and found his voice. "How's your son? Is he feeling better?"

"You're very kind to ask. The house physician has been called, but he has been delayed. Apparently, a boy fell down and has a nasty scrape. Vincent insisted that the doctor see to the child first. He needn't have mentioned that he wanted time to wash away the road dust before the doctor examines him. Raoul is fussing over him as we speak." She beamed at Erik, flashing a smile that took the edge off his fears.

"You're probably good with frightened horses, too," he heard himself saying aloud.

She raised an eyebrow as she headed towards the door. "You do say the most amusing things. Now, I must dress for supper." She cast a knowing eye on Erik's attire.

"Of course. I'll meet you downstairs after I've freshened up." He closed the door behind her, and reached for the writing paper on the nearby desk.

_Where have you been? I've been looking all over for you. Meet us in the restaurant. We're all atwitter over this 'surprise' of yours._

Using his pocketknife as a pin, he affixed the note to Aurelia's bedroom door so that she could not possibly miss it when she returned. He washed and shaved in record time, pulled on his dinner suit, and finished with a fresh wig and mask. The moment he was marginally presentable, he made haste down the stairs and headed straight to the front desk. Reporters were crowded around the desk, lining up as each awaited his turn to use the telephones. Much to its credit, the staff was unflappable, and dealt with the noisy gaggle with admirable efficiency. In a thrice, Erik was speaking to the head clerk and asking if there had been any messages for him.

"Monsieur Delacorte, is it not?" asked the man. He looked at the pigeonhole for Erik's suite. "No, sir. There are no messages."

"I'll be in the restaurant. If there are any messages, send them to me immediately."

"Of course, monsieur."

His fingertips felt numb, and he realized that his hands were trembling ever so slightly. No one else would notice, but it gave Erik pause for thought. Two decades spent toiling away at a sedentary livelihood had taken their toll. He'd felt this way when Aurelia was a child and had gone missing. He and the Nystroms had searched the entire farm, starting with the well, only to find her fast asleep in the hayloft with a straw dolly clutched in her tiny fist and two fat barn cats sound asleep beside her, and silently prayed that once again, he was overreacting.

He walked slowly towards the restaurant as a fresh surge of adrenaline flowed through his veins. Awareness of all that surrounded him was suddenly heightened, another symptom that his natural reflexes were responding to his state of alarm. He felt, as well as heard, the slightest tremor in the air, his mind and body recording the smallest movement in his peripheral vision. It reminded him of the old days, when he had been…had been a bad man. A very bad man.

This couldn't be happening, this awakening of his senses. The Phantom was dead and buried. Once, he had prided himself on his agility and skill in the martial arts, and could use a wide variety of weapons with either hand with equal dexterity. The Punjab lasso had been a particular favorite of his, because it was useful not only as a weapon, but as a climbing rope. It had gotten him out of more than one jam.

Better to dwell on the present, though. He was healthy and fit, thanks to eschewing the elevator all these years. Climbing the steps to his apartment in Paris every day, and those long walks on his forested property in Gamla Uppsala (not to mention the swimming) had kept him in shape. Some would say he had an enviable physique for a man his age, his taut muscles testifying to his strength. If cornered, he could defend himself and his child, too, if necessary. But he worried that his reflexes would be slow.

"My God, listen to me!" he muttered. "She's not a child any longer, but a grown woman. Aurelia's probably out running a few last minute errands, and is having the time of her life exploring the quaint shops and cafes of the city."

At the restaurant, he decided to sit in the lounge and have a cup of coffee while waiting for the rest of the dinner guests to arrive. When the coffee was served, he tossed it down much too quickly and signaled the waiter to refill his cup. He scanned the area, familiarizing himself with his surroundings, then checked his pocket watch and eyed the mantle clock on the nearby fireplace. A cheery fire popped and crackled in the enormous hearth, warding off the November chill.

_Aurelia, hurry back,_ he prayed, _or else you'll miss the supper yourself—not to mention that your Old Man is ready to climb the walls.  
_  
-0-0-0-

Nine bells. The perfect time for a fashionably late supper. From his vantage point near the entrance, Erik could see anyone entering the hotel. He expected to see Aurelia among them any moment, breathless with excitement and oblivious to her dear old dad's concerns. Hadn't she told him often enough that she could take care of herself? Perhaps it was time he started believing her.

When one grows up without a moral compass point and without any sense of normalcy in proper behavior, it is impossible to know how to act and what to think of unexpected social situations such as Aurelia's tardiness. Erik decided to rely on the vicomtesse's opinion. He valued her judgment in this matter, since she had three daughters of her own. If she deemed that there was nothing to be concerned about, perhaps he should listen to her. If only Christine were here to guide him….

In any case, worrying wasn't helping, and there was little he could do until Aurelia returned, at which point he'd give her a piece of his mind. If he left the hotel now, he would almost certainly miss her. Bordeaux was a big city and there were any number of shops she might have gone to for her surprise. Feeling powerless to control the situation, he returned his attention to the doorway and settled back to do some serious people-watching. Besides, observing unwitting aristocrats had always been one of his favorite pastimes, and it had been years since he had had such an opportunity. Attending the Royal Swedish Opera with Aurelia had been very different from this. The Swedes were streamlined in comparison to the French. They preferred simple elegance in all things. Swedish architecture, art, cuisine, and diversions were all straightforward, fresh, and clean. For lack of a better word, he called it honesty, and it was one of the reasons he had been attracted to Christine.

Patrons of the Regent were the sort who valued their privacy, but who liked to be seen at the right places. Shortly after nine, wealthy aristocrats began trickling into the main restaurant, ready to indulge in a party. This was the self-proclaimed Smart Set. They wore bespoke clothes, vacationed at exclusive resorts, attended expensive schools, and had friends and families with bloodlines a mile long. They talked of nothing of any importance, rarely had an original thought, and need never work a day in their lives, but they knew how to put on the dog.

Ages had passed since Erik had seen such a vast amount of jewels and precious metal in one place. Not since he haunted the opera had he seen such ostentation. His mouth curled into a sardonic half-smile. Why, the Smart Set positively oozed money. He had half a mind to slip in and relieve them of a few baubles. At least that would take his mind off his worries and teach these proud peacocks a lesson or two—but those days were past. He was a changed man, he reminded himself. He'd put all that behind him before he married Christine, and he prided himself on being a father that his daughter could respect. It had taken him a long time to become a man of integrity, and he wasn't about to sacrifice it because he needed a distraction.

The arrival of the de Chagnys caused something of a stir. It was little wonder members of the Set stared. Clementine was as beautiful as any Greek goddess, and the men were like two shining Apollos. Vincent wore the silk scarf Aurelia had given him as a sling for his injured arm. Erik knew this because he could hear Vincent confiding it to an acquaintance who had inquired about his injury. To be certain, the boy had not mentioned her name, because a gentleman does not mention a lady's name where personal matters are concerned, but Erik had seen her give the boy the scarf so there was no doubt as to the identity of the lady in question. Had this information been spread about the Set, it would very likely appear in tomorrow morning's social columns. That was something Erik would not tolerate (his daughter's name being bandied about in the papers was simply unacceptable) and he appreciated the fact that the boy was being discreet. This insight into Vincent's character made Erik feel a bit less tense. In spite of his paternal instincts, he found himself warming up to the young man.

The youngest members of the family were conspicuous in their absence. Zoé and Camille had been allowed to stay up late to celebrate, Clementine explained, but had an early supper in their suite and would not be joining the party. Erik sighed with relief. No magic tricks tonight.

Murmurings of approval greeted another arrival, and Erik craned his neck, expecting to see Aurelia in her evening gown. She would be wearing the gold one she had laid out, the one that brought out the roses in her cheeks. For jewelry, she would have on her mother's modest pearl choker and dangling pearl earrings (the ones Christine had saved for special occasions) and the emerald ring that had been recovered after twenty years at the bottom of a pond. Her rich auburn tresses would be done up in a Gibson, and she might wear a headdress of some sort, for like all women, Aurelia prided herself on the crowning glory of her luxuriant hair, and took pains with it on special occasions. She and her friends in Sweden had spent countless hours experimenting with various hairstyles, from braids to buns. He smiled inwardly at the memory of the girls sitting by the spring-fed pond, drying their long locks in the Midsummer sun. None of them had hair the color of Aurelia's, and the others loved to play with it because it was unique.

Unlike some men, Erik did appreciate the details. In fact, he prided himself on noticing that which other people considered insignificant. It was a habit that served him well as a writer—and had saved his life on more than one occasion in his reckless youth. Now, a new development caught his attention. Into the room came a well-groomed Marceau, his hair slicked back with Macasar, its sheen reflecting the glare of electric lights. Erik could almost smell the coconut in the hair tonic even from this distance, and noticed that the young man's tuxedo was slightly too big for him. Must have been borrowed from Vincent at the last moment, thought Erik, and then he allowed himself a small chuckle of amusement. The reason Marceau had traded in his black leather driving costume for formal dress was obvious: he sported Mlle Moerogis on his arm. Judging by the sly grin on Vincent's face, he was pleased with himself for playing matchmaker.

Erik nodded approvingly. Though he hadn't initially cared much for Vincent, the boy was proving to be rather inoffensive and a harmless diversion for Aurelia. She had been working hard at conservatoire all these months, and deserved to have a little fun on her own time. Besides, nothing would come of it. They were both too young, and too preoccupied with their very dissimilar interests, to think of a serious relationship.

Acquaintances of the vicomte appeared to be coming out of the woodwork. Everyone wanted to shake the hands of the victorious team. Everyone, that is, but Aurelia. She was still nowhere to be seen. That did it. There was no use in waiting any longer. Erik made a brief appearance and greeted his hosts, and then excused himself to check in with the front desk once more. The man in charge must have misunderstood him. Surely, Aurelia had sent a message by this time, and instead of being delivered to the dining room, it had sent up to their suite by mistake. En route, he brushed past Jabes, who was on his way to see his wife's father.

Erik barely gave notice to Jabes, grunting a cursory acknowledgment as he walked past. Over the years, Erik had taught himself to maintain a demeanor of calm, collected control. Tonight, however, he felt as if every nerve in his body were on fire. Distracted, he never noticed the concerned look on Jabes's face, didn't see that the younger man had quickly determined that something had rattled the person who had helped him so many years ago. As he headed toward the desk, Erik never noticed Jabes following at a discreet distance, not out of idle curiosity but out of genuine concern that the illustrious author might have found something out of ordinary at the Regent. If he had, he would have learned that the young man was thoughtful enough to want to smooth over whatever the problem was before it blew up into a major headache for his father-in-law. When Delacorte stopped at the desk, Jabes stepped back and had to strain his ears to hear what the desk clerk was saying.

"No, monsieur. There is no message, but a package was delivered a moment ago by courier." The small mustachioed man handed a parcel wrapped in brown paper to Delacorte. The color drained from Erik's face as he stared down at the writing and recognized it as a near-perfect facsimile of his own. The address was written in red ink—or was it blood? He felt the floor sway beneath his feet and held onto the parcel with a death grip.

Then it all came back to him. Bruguière! When he saw him in the Bois the night before, his attorney and long-time friend had told him about some stolen correspondence. Suddenly his head was filled with a rush of light and sound. Someone had stolen his old letters and had copied his handwriting!

What could this mean? Blackmail? Could it somehow be connected with Aurelia? Anxious as he was to know the contents of the box, he forced himself to slow down and study the parcel. He took note of the size of the box—about the size of a shoebox—and the common brown paper it was wrapped in. The ragged edges suggested it had been cut with a dull blade or scissors, and the glue used to fasten the wrapping was ordinary mucilage. Commonplace items, no doubt chosen for their very anonymity. Grasping the desk clerk's letter opener, he carefully sliced the paper open. His heart hammered in his chest when he saw what lay inside.

Resting in a nest of auburn-colored hair lay Christine's emerald ring. Automatically, he picked up the tresses and examined them in the light, oblivious to those around him. Nearly all of Aurelia's long locks had been hacked off and used to line the box. Underneath laid a neatly folded note.

Stunned, he opened the note. He had to shake his head to make his eyes focus. It was as though he were trapped in a waking nightmare. He longed to be back on his farm, with Aurelia inside the house practicing her scales. The stiff paper rattled in his hands, demanding to be read.

_She's a pretty thing. Reminds me of a certain diva I knew a long time ago. If you want to see her, come to the Pont de Pierre tonight at midnight. Need I remind you it's a private party? No uninvited guests allowed._

Erik crumpled the paper, put everything back in the box, and then slapped the lid on it. He couldn't bear to look at it. He couldn't allow himself the luxury of emotion, not now. His beloved daughter was in trouble, terrible trouble, and it was up to him to save her. Her only hope was for him to keep his wits about him.

He forced himself to concentrate on the contents of the note and what it meant. The first thing that struck him was that there was no mention of a ransom. That, added to the fact that the ring had been returned, sent a clear message. This wasn't about money. It was personal. Very personal. He shuddered as he felt a change come over him. The shy, retiring writer was being subsumed by a part of him that he thought dead and buried. A persona he'd left behind long ago was coming back to life.

The Phantom turned towards Jabes as if he had known the young man was lurking nearby all along, and motioned him over. "Look," he said quietly. "I need a favor. Can you keep an eye on the de Chagnys until I return?"

"Of course," Jabes said without hesitation. He too had noticed a change in Delacorte. Whatever was in the box had brought about an awful transformation. He looked the other man in the eye, and where not too long ago had been concern and worry there was now a flinty harshness. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. "Is something wrong?"

Without preamble, Raoul appeared out of nowhere and slipped into the conversation. "His daughter is missing," he said quietly, hoping to avoid attracting any eavesdroppers. From the snatches of conversations that could be heard, it was obvious that the lobby was still abuzz with talk of the latest racing news. Nobody would pay attention to them in the slightest, unless they did something that would draw notice. Raoul gave Erik a concerned look. "We were…worried when you didn't come back right away. We knew something must be wrong if Aurelia had not arrived by the time the first course was served." He leaned closer, his lips practically touching Erik's ear. "Don't play games with me. You asked this man—someone who I met only a few hours ago—to watch my family. Don't try to deny it. I heard you. So what I want to know is, do you have reason to believe that they are in danger? Do you think they're involved in whatever it is that's going on?"

"Of course not!" Erik tried to sound convincing, but failed miserably. "My only concern is that no one else disappears." He tossed his head towards an alcove where they could speak privately.

Before they knew it, Vincent was joining them. He had accompanied his father out of the dining room, but it had taken him a little longer to make his way across the lobby, thanks to all the well-wishers who kept stopping him to congratulate him on his victory. He followed the other men as quickly as he could, and arrived at the alcove in time to hear his father say, "There's more to this than you are telling us, Erik. Out with it. The truth."

"You mean there's no news yet of Mlle Delacorte?" Vincent asked anxiously, and much too loudly. Raoul held out a hand, gesturing to his son to keep his voice down.

Erik seethed. "Aurelia's life depends upon keeping our tongues in check, and keeping cool heads." He forced himself to smile and act as though he'd just heard a funny joke. "Pretend nothing is wrong. We may at this very moment be under surveillance."

"She's been kidnapped?" Vincent whispered. "This can't be happening. It's a…a joke. A terrible, sick, joke. She said she had a surprise—"

"No!" Erik snapped, then forced himself to smooth his expression once again. "Your sister said that she had received a note and that it mentioned a surprise. We've all been so determined to think in normal terms, like ordinary people, that we have closed our minds to the possibility that something unthinkable has happened."

Grim silence enshrouded them, each man locked in his own thoughts, until Erik spoke again. "The less any of you know, the better. Need I say that there will be no police involved in this matter? I shall handle it on my own. However good your intentions may be, you cannot help me. I will not allow you to interfere." The Erik who had traveled with them on the train from Paris was gone. His entire demeanor had taken on a sharper edge. His voice was hard as nails, and his face had taken on a lean, predatory look that made the others uneasy.

Raoul had seen this look before, and it sent chills down his spine. "You know you can't do this on your own. Like it or not, we are involved." Raoul ran his hand through his hair while he thought. "We need to make a plan, but not here." He took a quick glance around them. "We're beginning to attract attention."

"Meet me in my family's suite in five minutes," Vincent said. The others peered at him with a mixture of surprise and uncertainty. "Don't look at me that way." He glanced down at his injured arm. "I know what I'm doing. I'm not totally useless, and I'm certainly not about to desert Aurelia in her time of need." He dipped his head and walked away as casually as if they had been discussing the weather instead of a rescue mission.

Jabes raised a finger. "I'll be up after I've asked my father-in-law to put a house detective on the vicomte's entourage for the rest of the night."

"Good man," Erik whispered, as Jabes departed.

"You have no intention of letting us help, do you," Raoul said, jabbing a finger at Erik's chest. "The moment we are out of sight, you'll tear out of here like the Spartan warrior of old, one man to do the work of a hundred. You'd lie to us to save her."

Erik responded with a sneer. "What's your point?"

"I want your word," Raoul demanded. "I want your word that you will not do anything…crazy. Let us help you, Erik." He added, as gently as possible, "It's what Christine would have wanted."

"That's a low blow," Erik muttered.

"Nevertheless, it's true. Give me your word as a gentleman that you will meet with us in five minutes. Aurelia's safety is what we all want. Nothing else." When Erik did not acknowledge him, he added, "Christine told me once that your word was enough, and she was right. Give it to me now and let me help, or I swear I will go to the police and do my best to find your daughter. With or without you."

He shot daggers at the vicomte. If looks could kill….

"All right," Erik replied reluctantly. "Five minutes. I'll meet you. You have my word."

-0-0-0-

The de Chagny suite was the best at the Regent, and included enough connecting rooms to accommodate the entire family and their three personal servants in privacy. It also had the benefit of a private office where Raoul could conduct business if need be. However, he had never imagined using it to plan a rescue for a young woman, particularly not the daughter of Erik Delacorte.

Clementine, Moerogis, and Marc returned to the suite, unaware of what was going on, and several minutes had passed before Raoul opened the doors to the office and motioned for them to come inside and join the discussion. Jabes introduced himself to Marc, and the two of them sat in the chairs offered to them. Sensing the tension among the men, the vicomtesse suggested that Moerogis retire for the evening before the matter could be discussed, and the girl reluctantly but obediently complied. Then, Clementine stood at her husband's side. "I made excuses for you at the table," she explained. "There were four empty seats, not to mention that one of the guests of honor was in absentia. I told everyone that Mlle Delacorte had a slight headache after all the excitement and had remained in her room, and that Vincent's shoulder was troubling him so you and Erik had brought him back here to await the doctor." She smiled so sweetly that one could forgive her anything, even a harmless white lie. "Marc was the center of attention."

"And deservedly so," Vincent said, giving credit where it was due.

It was Raoul's responsibility to tell Clementine why Aurelia was missing. She was aflutter when the facts of the matter were explained, and for a moment, she appeared quite faint, but she soon rallied her courage. "Kidnapped! Oh, Raoul," she cried, "you must bring her back! Bring the dear girl back to us unharmed!"

"We have a plan," Raoul explained, holding her hand gently. "We would prefer to keep the police out of this, and Erik thinks it would be better if he went alone."

Vincent disagreed, and protested vigorously. "You can't go alone. You'll need help. Plus, I want to be there for Aurelia. She would never have come to Bordeaux if not for me. It's all my fault that she's in a jam." He stood toe to toe with Erik. "I'll only follow you if you try to elude me. You might as well put me to use."

Erik's upper lip curled in a sneer at the young pup's audacity, but he had to admire the boy's pluck. "You think you could follow me? You'd never keep up."

"I only wish to help."

A low and primal rumble emanated from the masked man. "I won't let anyone put my daughter at risk. I'll do whatever I must to stop you from interfering."

Raoul exploded upon hearing the implicit threat. He pointed angrily at Erik, talking to Clementine so quickly that he tripped over his tongue. "See what I mean? This is the Erik Delacorte that I remember. Everywhere he goes, there is death and destruction! Someone always gets hurt!"

Clementine wavered, momentarily conflicted. She was caught between concern for the girl, and fear for the safety of her husband and son. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to speak calmly. "No matter what I say, the three of you will do what you have determined you must do. As I see it, we have no choice. You must go with him." She searched her husband's eyes, those starry eyes that had always shined with the light of idealism. He was her hero, through and through. "I'm thinking of Aurelia, my love. If anyone can bring her back safely, you can."

Vincent stirred. "I have an idea. Look, with this bum shoulder, I'm not much good but I might at least provide a diversion." The men gathered 'round to hear more.

A child cried out in the bedroom, and Clementine's head jerked towards the sound. "It's a nightmare," she explained. "Our youngest is prone to them." Raoul's wife excused herself and hurried to the bedrooms.

"It's our little Zoé," Raoul offered. Clearly, he was accustomed to hearing the girl scream in the night. "She has been worried about Mlle Aurelia ever since she missed the finish of the race. She adores Aurelia; she's all Zo could talk about on the way downstairs to the restaurant. Your daughter's disappearance has affected her sleep."

"I'm sorry my daughter got kidnapped and has had the bad form to upset the little one," came a cold, sarcastic reply.

Rather than back down as he might have done in the past, Raoul stood his ground and glowered at his old nemesis. "I didn't mean it that way, and you know it. We don't have time to bicker."

"You're right," Erik admitted. "It's nearly eleven. Let's get back to business."

By the time Clementine returned, their plan had been finalized. "Marc and Jabes will stay here until we return," Raoul told her. "Don't worry. It's merely a precaution."

Vincent took Erik aside. "If we're to pull this off, I'll need your walking stick in addition to all the rest. You always carry it; why would you leave it behind now? Obviously the fiend has been watching you and knows your habits."

"Then you shall have it," Erik said. "But _entre nous_, there's something you should know about my stick."

-0-0-0-


	53. Chapter 53

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 53**

April 10, 2011  
HDL

_A man that studieth revenge keeps his own wounds green._  
~Francis Bacon

-0-0-0-

The clock tower in the distance sounded somber, funereal, its tones muffled by distance and the cool night air. Erik gave an involuntary shudder. It wasn't that he believed in signs or portents, but if he did, he would take those solemn sounds as a bad omen. He counted the tolling of the bell. Eleven. He pulled out his pocket watch, as if not believing his ears. Taking an odd satisfaction in his watch and the clock tower agreeing, he snapped the lid closed and looked hard at the men before him. Their faces revealed both strength and fortitude, and more than a healthy dose of grim determination. In the past, Erik would never have looked to another person to help him do his dirty work, but tonight was different. Tonight he was not fighting for himself, but for his daughter, and he knew deep within his heart that these men, no matter their past disagreements, would be there for him and her, to the bitter end if need be.

"An hour to go, gentlemen," Erik said, stating the obvious. "Are we clear on what to do?" Heads nodded in understanding. "I don't think I need remind you that our adversary is extremely dangerous, and already has blood on his hands. I doubt he would give a second thought to shedding more."

Vincent's forehead wrinkled into a frown, and his father asked, "You know the identity of the person we'll be up against? And what's this about previous bloodshed?"

Erik sighed, not in frustration with the question, but at his own recent lapse in judgment. "I cannot say with certainty what the man's name is, but this isn't the first time he has struck out at me by attacking someone else. Only the first time, I was too foolish to realize this."

"I'm afraid I don't know what you're talking about. Do you care to explicate?" asked Vincent.

"Remember the murder of the dancing master a few weeks ago?"

Raoul recognized the case at once. "It was in all the papers," he explained to his son. "Rather a sordid affair, involving an escaped lunatic." The vicomte turned his attention back to Erik. "But the _sûreté_announced that the perpetrator had been arrested. How does this involve you?"

Erik explained about the visit from the detectives, the note signed by someone calling himself the Angel of Death, and the victim's description of his attacker wearing a mask, all that could be gotten from the poor man before he succumbed to his grievous wounds. "The only thing that kept me from being taken into custody was that I had an excellent alibi—you. The attack took place the very afternoon my daughter and I were enjoying the hospitality of you and your family."

Silence enveloped the room for several moments as each considered this new information. At last, Raoul spoke up. "Well, it's nice to know I was good for something," he said, half in jest.

"I knew you had it in you, Old Man," Vincent said, clapping his father on the shoulder with his good arm. He glanced down at the sling still wound over his shoulder and shrugged out of it. "Damned thing doesn't do much good anyway," he said to himself as he tossed it aside. "It's not as though it was that serious an injury."

"This is your last chance to back out," said Erik. "I wouldn't blame either of you if you decided you'd rather not be involved, now that you have a better idea of the kind of person we are dealing with."

Vincent huffed. "Do you think I am so shallow a person?" He glanced at the mantel clock. "We're wasting time in idle chatter. We've got places to go, and things to do," he said. "I suggest we get moving if we want to get things set up before we meet our mysterious 'friend'."

"Agreed," said Raoul. He turned to Erik. "Do you care to lead the way?"

And Erik led the small rescue team out the door and onto the darkened streets of Bordeaux…

-0-0-0-

Aurelia woke up and found herself in what looked like an old abandoned warehouse, her head aching and her cheek throbbing. With muddled thoughts clouding her mind, she tried to remember what happened, how she got here. Slowly it came back to her. There had been a note from her father, only now she knew that he hadn't written it at all. It had been forged to look like his handwriting. The whole thing had been a trap.

Fragmented images slowly came to her. There was the meeting place, and an older gentleman with a pale complexion. The man had looked harmless enough, his well-dressed and groomed appearance causing her to think there was nothing out of the ordinary about him. He'd smiled as he approached her, asking directions. The street had been crowded, teeming with raucous racing enthusiasts, and she thought it odd that he had chosen to ask her when there were so many men standing closer to him. She had turned to point the way to the street he was inquiring about when, before she knew it, he was standing beside her and speaking to her in a most menacing tone of voice.

"Be quiet and do exactly as I say," he growled, "or it will be the last thing you ever do."

Indicating that he had a weapon in his pocket, he had grabbed her round the waist with one arm and had begun forcing her away from the other people. She'd tried to pull away from him, unwilling to blindly follow him into the alley he was propelling her toward, when he put his lips to her ear. She felt his rancid breath tickle her neck as he whispered menacingly, "Want to play rough? So be it. When I'm done with you, I'll go back and fetch your little friend. What did you call her? Maggie? No, Gigi. Yes, that's it. What an innocent, comely lass she is. I believe she has two little sisters as well. I could spend several days in the laps of such the sweet young things. They could be my harem." He uttered a low, frightening laugh.

What he was suggesting was unspeakable. "N-no," she had said, suddenly quiescent. She could not allow him to harm Vincent's sisters. "Don't hurt them. I'll…I'll do as you say." Her mind raced, searching for a solution. Before she'd gone off to Stockholm to study, her father had spent many evenings lecturing her on what to do if she were ever accosted by a stranger. He had even taught her some simple martial arts maneuvers…had told her what to do if anyone ever tried to harm her…had explained that above all else, she must do whatever it took to get out alive. At the time, she thought he was being an overly protective parent. Now, she was glad he'd made her listen and learn. It brought her an odd sort of comfort as she tried to find a way to free herself from this madman.

Once they were alone in the alley, the horror of her situation sank in and hit her hard. She berated herself for not doing what she should have done in the first place. What was it her father had attempted to pound into her during one of his lectures? _Trust your instincts,_ he had told her. _Act fast, before it was too late. Make a commotion! _She opened her mouth to scream, but the elderly man had more strength than she'd realized and pushed her down. She fell with such force that her head struck the curb. Stunned, she put up a hand and felt blood trickling from her cheek. Before she could do anything else, she felt a cloth shoved into her face, covering her mouth and nose. It was soaked in a liquid with a sickly sweet odor, and she tried to hold her breath. In the end could not help herself. She inhaled in spite of herself…and then she blacked out.

As she struggled in and out of consciousness, she felt herself rising and falling, as if on currents of wind. When she made the slightest sound, her captor would strike her about the head with his open palm to silence her. She gave up the struggle. There was no use resisting, at least not yet. She would bide her time, she told herself, and wait for the right moment. Surely, an opportunity for escape would present itself. It always did, if one were patient and clever. Hadn't her father said so in his books? They were mere adventure stories, but surely there was a grain of truth in them, some tidbit of knowledge that would help her out of this nightmare.

She tried to focus her eyes, and saw better the large, empty room with its tall, cavernous ceilings and grime-covered windows. Those that were not broken out, that is. The place smelled of age and disuse—dank, musty, and definitely unpleasant. From the darkness outside the windows, she knew that it was late, but it wasn't totally black inside. In the middle of the room was a small fire beside which was a man sitting on a stool, his figure silhouetted as he sat hunched over the flames, warming his hands. Her ears strained for sounds that might provide a clue as to her whereabouts, but she could hear nothing—no street traffic, no sound of merriment from revelers who were surely still celebrating the great race.

As her mind continued to clear, she wondered why her arms and shoulders ached so much. That was when she found that she was lying on her side, her body resting upon an old, scratchy woolen blanket. When she tried to move, she found that her hands and ankles were bound. Her hands were going numb, and tears welled up in her eyes. She blinked hard, forcing them back. Giving into fear would play into her captor's hands, she told herself. Find something positive to focus upon. She told herself that lying on the blanket was better than lying on the hard, cold floor. A light breeze felt cool against her head, but there was no breeze. She was confused. As she rubbed her head against the blanket, trying to clear her thoughts, she felt with sinking horror that her long, luxurious tresses had been shorn!

At least she was still dressed, though her warm winter coat was gone. Her fine ensemble was torn and dirty, and it was frayed in places, looking as though she had been dragged across the ground. She shivered, as much from fear and shock as from the cold. She attempted to call out to the man in the room with her, but found an old rag tied around her mouth. The best she could do was to emit muffled noises. Panic welled up, and this time it was harder to force herself to think calmly, rationally. What could this man want with her? Lurid tales of white slavers and fates worse than death sprang into her mind, although she wondered at her tender age, she could not imagine what would be worse than death.

A low, rambling voice came to her ear, and she saw that the man was rocking back and forth on his stool as he mumbled to himself. She listened more carefully. It sounded like he was quoting the Bible! "I shall punish the children for the sins of the father to the third and fourth generation of those who hate me." Was she in the hands of a religious fanatic? But how did he know her father well enough to imitate his handwriting? She had never seen this stranger before, and could not fathom how he knew her father.

The man must have heard her moving around, for he turned his head and glared at her. He stood up and strode toward her, towering over her like a giant, and she recognized him as the man from the street. She gasped behind the gag as she made another shocking discovery. She had seen him before. He was also the ragged beggar who had been spotted hanging around the conservatory. He'd been following her!

"So, you're awake," he said, his elegant diction suggesting that whoever he was, he had not always been such a brute. "Good. I didn't want to use too much chloroform on you. I need you bright and alert for where we're going next." He knelt in front of her, his face bearing an expression of caring. If not for her dire situation, she might have believed him truly concerned for her. "I'm going to remove this gag, but I want your word that you won't scream. Not that anyone will hear you, but it's not very lady-like to make so much noise." Aurelia nodded, indicating that she would comply. He gently removed the cloth from her mouth, briefly cradling her head in his hands. When he lay her head back down, it was like a father tending his infant child. "Wait here," he said, and walked away.

She didn't know whether to laugh or to cry. Wait here? Where did he think she was going to go? A few moments later, he returned, this time with a cup of water in his hand. "Drink this," he said, once again lifting her head. He grinned, but this time his expression was anything but kind. "Oh, don't worry. It isn't drugged. I'm sure you're thirsty." For a brief moment, his eyes glazed over and he stared off into space. "I know all about being thirsty."

He was right; she was terribly parched. She obeyed her captor, deciding that all she could do for the moment was be submissive. Maybe she could convince him that she was biddable, would willingly do as he wished. She could convince him not to gag her again, perhaps talk to him, get him to open up and explain why he was doing this. Just maybe, she could even reason with him.

"Who are you?" she asked tentatively, her voice quavering. "What do you want with me?"

He patted her gently on the cheek, and Aurelia forced herself not to cringe. "Now, now, my dear. You mustn't take this personally. I have nothing against you. I'm sure you're a nice girl. A very nice girl." The leer on his face belied the gentleness of his voice. "What I want is my pound of flesh," he said more fiercely, as his hand glided softly down her cheek, caressing her neck and shoulders. He paused as his hand hovered briefly over her breasts before he pulled it away. "And very nice flesh you have, my dear. Don't fight me. Struggling will only make things worse, and we don't want that, do we?"

She shook her head no.

"Do we?" he repeated, his tone more menacing this time.

"N-no," she stuttered.

"Good. As for what I want? I want your father. He destroyed my life, you know. He destroyed the one person I ever cared for. Poor Gilles-who never did anyone harm, mind you-was driven to suicide by the scandal your beloved father caused when he exposed our little embezzlement scheme. Erik Delacorte walked away Scot free, while I paid the price for all of us! And for what? Because my friend and I helped ourselves to a few francs, courtesy of the French government. Look at what _he_did! He was the worst of us all, yet all he got was a slap on the wrist and became the darling of Parisian Society! Why should he be rewarded for his sins…while I am punished for mine? Tonight that changes. Tonight, I will kill him…but before I do that, I will make him suffer. I will force him to watch as I snuff the life out of his sweet, innocent, virginal daughter before his very eyes. In the mean time, you and I will get to know each other a little better. You might say we'll be intimate friends."

Her courage began to fail. This couldn't be happening! "P-please don't hurt me! My father…my father will be missing me! Gigi told him about the message; he was probably nearby when you forced me into the alley and at any moment he will come through that door and –"

_Slap!_The stinging pain blinded her momentarily.

"Shut up!" he shouted, his hands trembling with rage. He began to cough and put a handkerchief to his mouth. When it came away, Aurelia saw that it was stained with blood. He must be a consumptive! That explained his pallor and his wraith-like, skeletal appearance. He wasn't nearly as old as he looked. It was illness and deprivation that made him appear frail. He was wasting away from the disease, which wracked him with one coughing fit after another.

She watched with revulsion as her captor took a sip from a tiny bottle of cough elixir, composed himself and put a smile back on his face. "You made me do that, girl. Now, behave yourself or there will be more of the same. Do we understand each other?"

She nodded, but dared not speak.

"I told you before; it's nothing personal. You seem like a nice girl. Under the right circumstances, I could be very good to a youngster like you, though you're not really my type. Wrong equipment, what. But that was a preference which took root after I came to the opera house, after I met Gilles." He gazed at her thoughtfully. "You're so very much like your mother, do you know that? Why, looking at you, I could be seeing Christine Daaé herself. She was such a dainty morsel, but that Giry bitch would neither let anyone touch her precious Christine nor that slut of a daughter, for that matter. Guarded their chastity as if it were her own! When Gilles and I first took over the opera, they hadn't yet gone through puberty. They were pretty as little boys." He peered into her eyes and saw nothing but confusion. "Never mind. You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

"No," she whispered meekly.

He shook his head. "Doesn't matter. I'm fully prepared to fill you in on all the little details. Let's start with the truth about your father, shall we?"

She found her courage. "I know all I need to know about my father."

"Ha! You only think you do." He sneered at her. "You don't know a damn thing about the man, other than what he wants you to know. Did you know, for instance, that his name isn't really 'Delacorte'? He made that up at the trial. Did you know that he'd once been a freak in a circus sideshow? He told me so himself, when we were still on friendly terms. His 'act' was the living corpse, and his 'talent' was to be buried alive beneath six feet of earth. He'd claw his way to the surface moments before suffocation, gagging and choking on the loose soil that had been his temporary grave. He said it filled his ears and left him deaf until he could duck his head in a bucket of water, and he tasted it in his food for days afterward." He chuckled strangely, the sound of his amusement more like a snarl than laughter. "He once confided that 'a belly full of dirt is better than going hungry.' Isn't that funny?" The faraway look in his eyes faded to cold steel. "The truth is, your father's only talent was survival. The will to live kept that monster going year after year until he finally struck it rich by blackmailing me—and my lover—for a share of the money we were skimming off the top of the grant the city of Paris gave us to rebuild the Opera Populaire." He laughed again, a haughty, cruel laugh that made the hair on the nape of her neck stand on end. "I'll bet he never told you that, did he!"

"I still love him," she said quietly. "And I admire him more than ever, now that I know—"

"You don't know anything!" the man raged. "There were stories about him, rumors that he had been a government spy, that he'd broken up an espionage ring in Persia back during the Shiite uprisings that threatened to bring down the ruling dynasty and ruin trade with France. They say he was a double agent, an assassin who did the bidding of the shah's mother while working for French Intelligence. A common murderer!" He spat at her feet. "That's who your father is!"

'I'm sorry," she said in desperation, "but I don't understand. You said my father blackmailed you? Was he trying to keep you from telling what you knew about him?"

"You aren't very bright, are you," he said coldly. "When I met your father, he was living underneath the opera house like a common criminal. He had built himself a cozy home in the fifth cellar; obviously, he thought no one would ever find him. And we couldn't have, you know, if it hadn't been for Mme Giry."

"Mme Giry?"

"You are a stupid girl! Giry was quite the looker in her day. Every man in Paris wanted to be in her bed, including me. She rejected me time and time again, even though I sent her flowers and gifts of wine and jewels. They were all returned along with a note, 'I am otherwise engaged.' That was no lie. She was 'otherwise engaged' with any man who had a title and a pocketful of gold. One night, after the last performance of some minor ballet, I decided to act on my…my desires.

"Giry was surprised to see me, but offered me a cup of coffee. She thought I had been drinking and had only stopped by to talk. I told her that I wanted something…more. It was easy to overpower her; after all, she was only a woman. I began to make love to her, and I tell you she was enjoying it until…until…the ropes…the blindfold…the lash…she was fine with it all until I began to…to...until I took the poker from the fire and started to…to put it to her…. I was only going to burn her a little, to give her a small memento to remind her of what we meant to each other, but she carried on like a child, crying and begging me to stop. Then I remembered that there was something else she had to offer me, a part of her that I could claim for my own. Widen the channel, as they say." He touched his groin, fondling himself briefly as he remembered the moment, and was so lost in his sordid tale that he didn't seem to care that Aurelia had closed her eyes and turned her head away from him.

He heaved a sigh. "Suddenly, _he_ appeared, right there in the room beside us! _Monsieur le Fantôme _himself, the damned interfering bastard! He grabbed me and was pulling me off of her just as things were getting interesting. Before I knew what was happening, I was on the floor and he was whipping me like a dog. He might have killed me had it not been for that puling bitch, Giry. 'You can't do it!' she said. 'He's too well-known. He'll be missed. The police will come looking for him.'

"Your father wasn't easily swayed. I remember what he said as clear as if it was today. 'Stand aside! I will not abide this _cur_ inflicting himself on a woman…taking advantage of his strength to force himself on someone who can't defend herself! Get out of my way, madam. I will finish what I started.' I'll never forget it. That's exactly what he said. Imagine, the likes of _him_ calling _me_a cur." He paused and took a sip of water from the glass he had given Aurelia.

"Somehow, the old girl persuaded him that I could be more useful to him alive than dead, and that is when he cooked up the idea to blackmail me. He and Giry both profited from my…my little indiscretion. But all of that is nothing compared to what your father did next."

"Wh-what did he do?" Aurelia asked, even though the man's stories sickened her. There was no doubt that while there may have been a kernel of truth in his sordid tale, in her mind she was sure that most of what he was telling her bore little resemblance to the truth, that he was deliberately trying to disgust her and turn her against her father. She hoped that by showing interest, the man might come to like her enough not to hurt her, might even let her go. If he only wanted to make her hate her father, then letting him talk might satisfy him. After all, there had been ample opportunity to do worse to her while she was unconscious, and as far as she could tell, he had not…defiled her.

"He conspired against me with his attorney to make me take the fall for his crimes! Without the evidence they produced, I'd have been a free man."

"How do you know this?" she asked, incredulous. She recalled her mother's diary with its worried entries stating that Erik would not even testify in his own defense. The notion that he would implicate another man was ludicrous.

"Scipio Africanus said, 'Know thy enemy.' I made it my business to learn as much about the man who sired you as possible." He paused and stared at her, a cruel sneer distorting the line of his mouth. "Why are you smiling? Have I said something amusing?"

"You quote a great Roman general who was known for his chivalry. It is ironic that you would use a woman to get at the man you hate."

"Not just any woman. You are my enemy's daughter. What else would draw out Erik Delacorte? I don't imagine he'd have come running if I'd taken that boy you've been seeing."

"My father might surprise you. He's not the man you say he is."

"I'm not lying. You can ask him yourself, tonight, on the bridge." He glared at Aurelia as if he wanted to hurt her; obviously, her natural inclination to defend her father had riled him up.

"I only meant that he's not that man anymore. He has changed." She struggled to calm the man down, to regain lost ground. "Please help me understand. It's difficult for me, because he has only ever been a kind and loving father to me—"

"Kind and loving? How…sweet." The man closed his eyes, invoking years of pain and deprivation and now laying them at the young woman's feet. "Your father sent me to Hell. Do you know where that is, girl? It is seven miles off the coast of French Guiana, an ocean away from France, near the continent of South America. You may have heard of it. It's a little tropical 'paradise' called Devil's Island."

She nodded in recognition of the name of the notorious penal colony and tried to move her hands and feet while the man wasn't looking. If she could stretch the ropes, loosen them in some way, she might be able to slip out of her bonds when the opportunity arose. When he opened his eyes, she was as still as she could be. "It's a terrible place," she said, feigning sympathy. "How did you survive?"

"I did whatever I had to do to live." In those moments, his face was like carved stone, impassive and cold. "Seven long years I spent on that rat hole. Oddly enough, it was there that I actually did something worthy of a life sentence. I killed a man for the first time."

How does one respond to that kind of information? "I'm so sorry," Aurelia said, intent on gaining his trust. It was time to take a risk, to try to establish rapport with him. If he could see her as a person who cared…maybe, just maybe...

"What…what is your name?" she asked, worried that this tactic might backfire.

"My name hardly matters. I'm not the man I used to be either," he said, pointing at his chest. The room grew very quiet as he pondered her question. "Would you like to see something, child? No? Let me show you anyway." He pulled off the worn shoes nicked from some poor man's doorstep. "When the rains came, we prisoners lived in water up to our knees. Filthy water, full of human waste and carcasses of dead animals and insects. Mildew and fungus grew on every surface, including the rags that clothed our broken bodies, the cement cell walls that were built in pits dug into the sand, even on the iron bars that served as our beds. Fungus grew behind our ears, in the folds of our skin, even under our nails." He took off the silk socks he had pilfered from a gentleman's luggage onboard the train from Paris.

Aurelia felt the gorge rise in her throat as the man showed her his feet—or what was left of them. The tips were missing from several of his toes, and the others were deformed from some sort of awful injury.

"This is what 'jungle rot' looks like. Living flesh becomes diseased and falls away from the bone. It got so bad that some of us pulled out our own nails rather than suffer from the pain of the fungus distorting them. But that was only one of the 'benefits' of Devil's Island. It's a wonder of us survived. That is when I knew that I would live, no matter what it took, so that one day I might repay the man who condemned me."

It was then that she noticed the other ravages that he had suffered. She had been too frightened and confused from the chloroform to notice it before now. Now she could see that many of his teeth had fallen out, and most of his hair was missing, too. He was, for all intents and purposes, a living corpse himself. "I'm sorry," she said again, and this time she meant it. "You have suffered terribly, but some men rise above adversity. My father did. You can too." She kept speaking even though he was laughing again, that horrifying laugh that came from the depths of despair. "You haven't always been...like this... Down on your luck, I mean. I can hear it in your speech. You were—you are—a man of culture and learning. Let us help you! Let my father—"

"No, thank you," he replied in a chillingly rational manner. "I've thought this through quite thoroughly. Your father has done quite enough for me. He took away my livelihood. He drove the only man I ever loved to commit suicide. He plea bargained his way out of jail, then fled the country while I was on trial, thereby avoiding giving testimony that might have saved me. It's time I repaid him for his...kindness."

He knelt forward and forced the gag back in her mouth. Wrapping the old blanket around her from head to toe, he lifted her up and tossed her over his shoulder like an old piece of carpeting. She was amazed that a man as sick as he was had such strength. "It's from all that time I spent on Devil's Island," he said, as if reading her mind. "The place either breaks a man…or makes him stronger."

Blinded by the coarse blanket covering her face, Aurelia relied on her other senses to tell her what was happening to her. She felt him carry her out of the room and dump her into…something.

"It's an old push cart," he explained. "That's how I brought you here. First, I hid you in the alley while I changed into workman's clothes, and then I put you in the middle of the bin, covered you with this old blanket. Dressed like this, I look like just another laborer. No one sees me. No one cares who I am or what I'm doing. Do you want to know where we're going? Of course, you do. Women are always curious, especially young ones like you. Well, we're going to meet your father over on the Pont de Pierre at midnight. Have a little _tête à tête_, don't you know. Just the three of us."

She squealed a little when he briefly lost balance of the wheelbarrow, and he railed at her. "Don't make a sound, or I swear I'll dump you in the river. With your hands and feet bound, you'll sink like a stone and drown within moments. Wouldn't want that now, would we? Don't force me to do something you'll regret."

The trip to the bridge felt as though it took an eternity, though it was barely more than fifteen minutes. The cart stopped, and the blanket was pulled from her. Aurelia saw her captor pull out a knife and she shuddered.

"No, I'm not going to do anything to you. Not yet, anyway. Not so long as you do as you're told. Do you understand? Good." He pulled a coil of rope from beside where she lay and made a hangman's noose with one end of it. This he placed around her neck, snugging it slightly. "We understand each other, don't we? If I remove this gag, you're not going to scream and carry on like a silly goose, are you? No, I didn't think so." Keeping the rope slightly taut with one hand, he reached down and cut off the bonds around her ankles with the other. He then grabbed her by the elbow and helped her out of the cart. "I'm an old man, young lady, and I want you to treat me with the respect I am due. Don't try anything foolish. I'd be very angry if you tried to kick me, and I would have to hurt you." And when he pushed her forward, she did exactly as she was told.

-0-0-0-

Midnight at the Pont de Pierre was normally a quiet time, with only a few pedestrians crossing as well as the occasional prostitute trolling for customers, but not tonight. Tonight, the city center was the site of festivities, drawing citizens and visitors alike to an open celebration of the historic race. This left the bridge, which was on the other side of town, deserted. Only the sound of the River Garonne broke the silence, as waves fifty feet below lapped against the pillars.

The Garonne was notorious for the dangerous current at this point in the river, a sharp bend that was famous for the rapid flow of the water. When it was first built, the bridge had initially been unstable, due to the swift current and the effect of the tide on the river. Ninety years earlier, the supports had been strengthened with the assistance of British diving bells that allowed workmen to go beneath the surface of the water to repair the structure. Yet, the tidal river was so challenging that to date, the Pont de Pierre was the only bridge that spanned the treacherous waters of the Garonne.

The stone bridge was a marvel of engineering and aesthetics. Each of seventeen arches was decorated with an enormous white medallion in honor of the Emperor Napoleon, and tall, ornate gas lanterns lit the carriageway and the adjacent pedestrian walkway that lined either side of the bridge. The peacefulness and beauty of the Pont de Pierre provided an ironic contrast to the terror that Aurelia felt at this moment, as her captor prodded her with skeletal fingers. She half walked, half stumbled, as he goaded her again and again; all the while, she searched desperately in the darkness for someone, anyone who might be able to help her, but her efforts were futile.

The bridge was deserted. She had never felt more vulnerable than at this moment.

He led her to the middle of the Pont de Pierre and over to one of the street lamps, a sickening yellow puddle of light at its base, and tossed the other end of the noose up and over its cast-iron arm. Aurelia gasped as the rope pulled against her neck. "Tsk, tsk," her captor chastised, as if to a naughty child. "None of that. I just want to make sure you don't go wandering off. Stand perfectly still while I bind your wrists to the post. That's right. As long as you don't make any sudden moves, everything will be just fine. Oh," he said as an afterthought. "You're not one of those flighty women who panics and faints, are you? Do be sure not to faint. Wouldn't want you to fall and break your neck before your father arrives. That would spoil our plans."

She stood perfectly still.

Once she was secured, he walked around, inspecting the bridge, checking for traps. Satisfied with what he saw, he came back to Aurelia's side and took out an old, scratched up pocket watch. "Almost midnight," he said, sounding pleased with himself. "Watch carefully." He pointed toward the end of the bridge. "Soon, you'll see someone you know, no doubt thinking he is about to rescue you."

Sure enough, as if on cue, a cloaked figure walked with slow, measured steps, then stopped. "Aurelia, it is I, your father. Don't be afraid," a voice called out, the familiar rasping of it like music to her ears.

Her heart leapt as she saw the faint lamplight reflecting off a mask, the rest of the face hidden by the turned down brim of a wide-brimmed fedora. Her pulse raced with fear for her father's safety. What kind of trap had this madman set for him? She attempted to call out when the rope around her neck tightened.

"There'll be none of that," the man whispered in her ear as he loosed his hold on the rope so that she could breathe again. "I'm afraid your daughter can't answer you just now," he called out to her father. "You see, she's a little tied up at the moment."

Fear gave way to anger, but Aurelia could do nothing but grit her teeth. Her father took a few steps closer, then stopped again. This puzzled her. It was as if he didn't want her to see him up close. Then she saw the way he held his arm. Something was wrong with him. Terribly wrong.

-0-0-0-


	54. Chapter 54

**Quick Note from the Authors: **Lizzy and I were informed that there was some trouble with logging in last week to review stories. And here we thought the reason we received so few reviews was that you didn't like the last chapter! Well, hopefully, you'll enjoy this one! Enjoy ~HDK

**To Be Loved  
Chapter 54**

HDKingsbury & MadLizzy

April 17, 2011

_"Only peril can bring the French together."_~Charles de Gaulle

-0-0-0-

Beneath the Pont de Pierre, a small wherry made its way across the treacherous waters. Raoul grunted as he pulled on the oars. His shoulders and arms ached from fighting the current, but he ignored the pain and dug the oars deep into the water, propelling the boat soundlessly underneath the pillars. Neither he nor the hooded man sitting opposite had spoken during the trip. Whatever thoughts were going through their minds they kept to themselves. Expressing doubts or worries at this point would accomplish nothing good, but would only distract them from the daunting task before them.

"Do you think he saw us?" the vicomte whispered, reluctantly breaking into his companion's thoughts.

"No," Erik replied quietly. "We were lucky the clouds rolled in and are blocking the moonlight. Plus, we're well enough concealed in these." He indicated their dark clothes. "Even if the scurrilous blackguard were looking for us, he'd never be able to see us." At last, they had the boat where they wanted it. Carefully, Erik stood and threw his Punjab lasso. Catching it on the highest possible snag, he pulled it tight to secure it. "That will get me close enough to the railing."

"We've only got a few minutes. You'll have to be fast."

Erik's mouth formed a twisted grin. "I shall be." He watched as Raoul expertly tied the rowboat to the pillar with a mooring hitch, and cocked his head to the side curiously. The vicomte was a man of many surprises, not the least of which was his maritime skill.

If only Raoul had brought along his revolver, he thought, but when Erik had asked about this, he was informed that it had been left in Paris, safely tucked away in a locked drawer. A shame. It might have made their job that much easier. As for having one himself? Erik had never seen the need for one…until tonight. Back at the Regent, he had turned to the house detectives Jabes' father had arranged for, only to learn that they were of no use in providing arms.

"What kind of an establishment do you think this is?" one had asked, bewildered at the request. "The only armed citizens in Bordeaux are the police and criminals. We can offer you these, however," and without so much as a trace of irony, the man had casually handed over an array of brass knuckles, wooden batons, and a slapjack.

"Too heavy," Erik had replied, disappointed. He understood that for the first time in many years, he was going to have to rely on the weapons he carried with him everywhere he went: his wits, his voice, his terrifying persona, his looks, his walking stick, and the Punjab lasso. The element of surprise would also work in his favor. As they had made their way to the rendezvous point, he had turned his mind to those assets and reviewed how he planned to use them to save Aurelia. He only hoped that his allies would be up to the task and that his opponent was working alone. The boy was injured, and limited as to how much he could help. _Monsieur le vicomte_would be too far away to be of assistance.

Upon arriving, the three men had fanned out and scouted the area surrounding the bridge. They needed to know how many brutes they would be facing; their plans would be modified accordingly. Thankfully, their efforts had revealed no one lurking in the shadows. This bettered their odds. Once this had been done, Vincent had set off to play his role, while the vicomte did his part in getting the boat into position beneath the bridge. There was nothing else the nobleman could do at this point.

Raoul gave an involuntary shudder as though he had felt Erik's eyes upon him, and pointed to the bridge above them. "It's fifty feet up," he said, his words sharp with worry. "If you fall, you'll almost certainly be killed. But I suspect you know that."

"I won't fall. My daughter's life depends on it—and possibly your son's, too."

The nobleman scowled slightly at the reminder of the peril Vincent would soon face. "You had no right putting him in harm's way."

"I didn't ask him to come along," Erik snapped. "As I recall, he didn't ask anyone's permission. He _informed_us that he would be accompanying us whether we liked it or not. Besides, after seeing how he handled that race car, I'm sure he can take care of himself." He curbed his temper, knowing the enormous risks that were being taken to save his daughter. "Look, it's a little late to argue. As long as Vincent does exactly as I told him, he should be safe enough."

"Just…bring them both back safe and sound."

"I intend to," Erik said, his attitude toward the vicomte not as hard against him as it had once been. He knew that Raoul loved his son every bit as much as he loved Aurelia. He flashed his old enemy a smile and prepared to toss off the hood that covered his gruesome visage. "Don't look, monsieur. I haven't gotten any prettier since the last time you saw me without a mask."

Raoul fixed his gaze upon Erik's face, never flinching, and held out his hand. "Good luck, Erik," he said, as the two men gripped hands and shook.

Erik raised his fingers to his forehead in a salute. "Don't forget – your hand at the level of your eyes," he said with what might have been a grin, and then he was off, climbing the stone façade of the old bridge.

Slowly, taking pains not to make any sound, Erik scaled the pylon. As he climbed, every creak of the rope, every scrape of his boot against the masonry was magnified. It was as though the sounds he made were shrieking loud enough to be heard across town. He wondered how the man above could fail to hear all of this.

He looked up. Almost there. His shoulder and arm muscles ached under the strain, and his calves and feet screamed. His thighs began to shake from the effort to haul himself up the sheer stone surface. He rested his booted foot against the concrete for balance, ready to scale the final few feet, but it slipped, causing him to almost lose his balance. Small pebbles rattled down the length of the pylon and made tiny splashes in the water. The line cut into his hands as it took his entire weight while he flattened himself against the concrete and held his breath. Surely, his adversary heard that noise! He forced himself to count to thirty…then count again, waiting for something to happen. Nothing did. Apparently, fortune was with him. For now.

Once again, he gritted his teeth and resumed his task. He forced himself to regain his focus. This was going to be a battle to the death. No time for distractions.

-0-0-0-

"Father!" Aurelia cried out to the man on the bridge as she struggled against her bonds, but her captor grabbed a handful of her shortened hair in one hand and wrenched her head backwards, holding her tight against his body.

"Stay back!" he shouted at the man in the mask, holding the knife in his other hand so that its blade glinted in the yellow lamp light. "Stay back or I will gut her like a pig!"

The man they believed to be Aurelia's father stopped outside the circle of light. His sailor's eye judged the distance between them to be about seven yards. Playing for time, he opened his arms very slightly, making a pointed demonstration of showing that he was unarmed. The silver knob of his walking stick glittered in the gaslight. "Let her go," the man rasped in his garbled voice.

"Don't be absurd. That would spoil all the fun I've been planning…planning for days, weeks…no, years! We've come here, just the three of us, to hear your confession. Think of me as your parish priest," the man said brightly. The thrill of the chase was upon him. After all the time spent planting the seeds of vengeance one at a time, watching them, nourishing them, encouraging them to grow, his diabolical plan was about to bear fruit. "I want this puling bitch to know exactly what kind of man her father is before I kill you."

The masked man took another step forward.

"Don't come any closer!" The fiend tugged on the noose, tightening it until Aurelia made strangulated sounds. He stood there, his eyes blazing with hatred, when a slight scraping noise distracted him momentarily, and he loosened his grip to look over the side of the bridge.

-0-0-0-

Erik crouched behind the railing, listening to the voices, gauging everyone's exact location. Slowly, like a spider moving on its web, he made his way closer to his target.

"Don't come any closer!"

Erik froze, then realized the man was yelling at Vincent, who was doing a creditable job of imitating the Phantom. It was all he could do to refrain from jumping up and charging his enemy, a man he had thought long dead. Yes, he knew whom he was dealing with now. He'd have known that voice anywhere; he'd heard it enough times at the opera house.

Certain that he hadn't been found out, Erik peeked over the railing. Damn! He had misjudged their location. Instead of springing up from behind the man with the knife, Erik was going to have to come out directly in front of him. That was all right, as long as Vincent did what he was supposed to do. A mirthless smile spread across his face as Erik imagined what a shock his death's head would give the other man.

As he repositioned himself, his foot slipped once again. For a moment, he felt his balance teetering but sheer force of will helped him regain his stability and scrape his way to safety.

-0-0-0-

Vincent, impersonating the Phantom, heard the slight sound behind him and knew it had to be Erik. He sucked in his breath as he saw the villain cock his head. He must have heard Erik, too. Quick. Do something. Distract him. Waving his hands, he drew the monster's attention back to him, giving Erik time to get himself in position. "Look here. It's just you and I. No one else. We both know this is about you and me. You don't need the girl. What do you want?"

"I want your soul!" the man cackled. "And I want you to suffer! I want you to watch her DIE!"

"Let her go," Vincent commanded, forcing himself to ignore the stark terror that shone in Aurelia's bruised and battered face. He dare not let himself think of what had been done to her. Everything depended on keeping calm. "Let her go this instance, or—"

"Or what? Your threats are meaningless to me." He nodded at the rope. "Start talking, Phantom. You try my patience." He licked Aurelia's cheek with a putrid tongue the color of soil, and cackled when she grimaced and recoiled from him. "Tell this tasty little morsel how you planted the evidence that sent me to prison to die."

Vincent shrugged a shoulder, raising the elegant walking stick ever so slightly. Suddenly, a flash of blinding red fire flew out of the silver knob that served as a handle, followed by short bursts of fireballs that temporarily blinded them all. He hadn't realized how hot the metal would be after the magnesium fireworks were set off, and he was forced to drop it when it burned his fingers. He heard rather than saw the stick roll over the edge of the pedestrian walkway and fall into the River Garonne with a resounding splash. He cursed his luck. That had been his only weapon! He sent up a silent prayer that Erik would be able to take advantage of the situation…and quickly.

Suddenly, the real Phantom leapt over the balustrade of the bridge. His body was hidden by his dark clothes, but his bare death's head gleamed in the glow of the gas lantern, the stark white skin radiating as though on fire. It was as if a hideous flaming skull was flying through the air, heading straight for the murderer who held his daughter's life in his hands.

-0-0-0-

In a moment of panic, the scoundrel instinctively put Aurelia between himself and the flaming skull. This is not what Erik had hoped for, but there was no time to change tactics. Aurelia was entirely at the mercy of the killer, who gripped the rope that tightened the noose and shook it at the terrible apparition standing before him. "Abomination!" the man shouted, as recognition set in. "I knew that underneath that mask you were as ugly as sin, but I had no idea you were an utter blasphemy!"

"YOU!" the Phantom thundered. "Richard Firmin! You were a gentleman once, but look at you now. You're reduced to kidnapping and murder!" Erik briefly looked at his daughter. Aurelia was petrified, but did not appear to have any life-threatening injuries, so he concentrated on Firmin. He peered at his enemy, sizing him up. Though partially hidden by shadows cast by the streetlamp, he could see that Firmin was a shadow of the man he once knew. "What happened to you?"

"You happened to me! I am what you made me, Delacorte – or whatever your name is! Phantom! Charlatan! Thief! Fraud! All those years in prison, and you never once gave me a thought. We were partners once, and you deserted me."

"Partners? We were never partners. We were accomplices. But I paid my debt to society, and I've spent the last two decades trying to make amends for my crimes." He edged closer to the villain, counting on the after-effects of the dazzling light to conceal his movements.

Firmin snorted. "Well it wasn't enough! You never gave me a thought!"

"I believed you were dead! Why didn't you come to me or write to me, and tell me what you needed?"

"You'd have me believe that you would have helped me? HA! That's a laugh. I'm through with talking. Now, it's time to show you how I really feel about you." His knife blade, glinting in the lamplight, rested perilously close to Aurelia's throat.

"Why didn't you have the good grace to die on Devil's Island, and leave us alone?" Erik roared, and lunged for the knife. He hurled himself at Firmin and pushed him away from Aurelia, grappling for control of the weapon. Firmin slashed blindly with it, but Erik was too agile. He danced in and out of Firmin's reach, landing blows on the man's face and midsection, but Firmin kept pressing the attack, determined to cut him to ribbons.

Out from under the shadows at last, Erik got a good look at the one-time manager of the Opera Populaire. What he saw shocked him. Memories of performing in the sideshows came to mind, for that is what Richard Firman reminded him of—a sideshow display, a living corpse. He wondered if whatever disease was eating away at his body was also eating away at his mind. Erik was amazed at his opponent. In his condition, Firmin should have been easy to overpower and defeat, but years of hatred were giving him extra reserves of strength to draw upon.

Vincent, seeing his chance, rushed to Aurelia's side, putting himself between her and the killer. He loosened the noose, frantic to free her from the bonds that tied her to the lamppost, but his injured shoulder limited the use of his dominant hand. He might not be able to free her, but he would do his best to protect her from further harm.

"Vincent," she gasped, as he used his own body to shield her from danger.

"I…I need something to cut this rope," he cried, his frustration palpable. He peeled away the mask and wiped the perspiration from his brow with his sleeve. "The bastard must have wet the rope before he tied it. I can't get it loose!"

Erik had jerked his head up the moment Vincent called out, giving Firmin an opening. He thrust the blade upwards and across, catching Erik in the side and slicing him cruelly. The Phantom doubled over in pain, and Firmin jumped a few feet away, closing in on Aurelia and Vincent. Sensing Vincent's handicap, he brought a fist down on the top of the young man's weakened shoulder and leered when the boy sank to his knees. The knife flashed in front of his captive's eyes and grazed her chin; her breath came fast as she felt the sting of the wound, felt her own hot blood trickling down her long neck.

"Come any closer, and she gets it!" Firmin laughed harshly at the sight of fresh crimson stains upon her heaving bosom.

"No!" Erik shouted. His lungs burned from the night's exertions and he pressed his hand deep into his side to staunch the bleeding. He stared at the situation in front of him. Firmin was glaring menacingly at Aurelia's throat, his knife poised at her jugular. Vincent was powerless, incapacitated by pain, his arm hanging useless at his side. His mind raced frantically for a solution, for some way to save her, as Erik pleaded with the lunatic. "Be sensible," he said, trying vainly to reason with the man. "You don't need to kill her. Tell her everything you want to say about me. You have me where you want me; you don't need her any more. Do what you wish with me…but let her go!"

"It's too late," the blackguard shouted.

"It's not too late." Erik spoke softly, soothingly, allowing his words to envelope Firmin. It had been years since he'd used the Voice. Years ago, he had once promised Christine never to use it again, but the situation was desperate. He would use whatever he had at his disposal to save his daughter. He was sure Christine would understand. "I have money. Let me make amends, Richard. Get you a doctor, a warm place to stay. Nourishment. Compensate you for all those lost years. Make it up to you."

For a few seconds, Firmin appeared confused, then shook his head violently and cried, "Stop it! I know what you are doing. You can't mesmerize me. Hypnotism doesn't work on the unwilling; I read that in a book. One of _your_books, I might add." He watched the rapid pulse of Aurelia's jugular as the tip of the knife pressed against it. "You think you can buy me off? You delusional fool! Nothing can ever repay me for all those YEARS of suffering. Do you have any idea what it's like to lose the only person you've ever loved? Gilles Andre trusted you! And look how you repaid him! He's dead because of you!"

Past events flashed through his mind. Erik knew without a doubt that Gilles Andre was dead because Firmin had made him go along with the plan to defraud the government. It had been Firmin's idea to pad the books in the first place, but reminding him of this would only antagonize the man. Instead, he appealed to Firmin's one area of weakness. He invoked the memory of the man's dead lover.

"I never touched him. Why would I? He never did me any harm. Andre was a kind man, a genteel man; you know that," Erik said gently. "Remember how fond he was of Christine, how he looked out for her whenever he could. What would he say if he saw you now, threatening her child?"

Firmin wavered for a brief moment, torn between the man he had once been and the monster he had become. Deprivation and hatred made it inevitable that the latter would win out, and his lust for blood returned with a vengeance. "You will suffer as I have suffered. An eye for an eye, _Monsieur le fantôme_. The Lord sayeth, 'Because of the father's sin, the children shall waste away!' Thus my hand does the will of God." He raised the knife to plunge it into her breast.

Vincent had been biding his time, nursing his strength for one last attack. He sprang into action and lunged forward, knocking Firmin squarely in the middle of the chest. Firmin dropped the knife and reeled off balance, teetering on tiptoe by the railing, desperate to regain his footing, but it was no use. He rocked back and forth, scrambling for purchase until he fell backwards. A horrid, ragged scream tore through the night before a loud splash swallowed the sound and told Vincent that former manager of the Opera Populaire had fallen into the dark water fifty feet below.

The boy grabbed the switchblade and immediately used it to saw through the ropes and remove the hated noose, and then set about freeing Aurelia's hands. She collapsed into his embrace while he stroked her face, her shorn hair, the bruise on her cheekbone. He wrapped her in her father's long overcoat and rubbed her shoulders in an effort to fend off the cold night air. She shivered uncontrollably, but glanced up at him in mute gratitude. Her throat was badly bruised from the mistreatment Firmin had subjected her to, and it hurt to speak; she pointed to it by way of explanation, and when she did so, Vincent took her shaking hands in his and kissed her fingertips ever so gently.

Erik took in this tender scene without comment. As much as he wanted to rush to her side, his crushing sense of guilt made his feet into lead. Silently he berated himself, unknowingly echoing the words Firmin had said to his daughter earlier this evening. This mess was his fault. The sins of his past had caught up with him, and his daughter had nearly paid for them with her life. He should never have accompanied her to Paris. If he had had the sense to stay home in Sweden, had shown some trust in his daughter, none of this would ever have happened. If Erik had not accompanied her to Paris, would Richard Firmin have ever paid Aurelia any notice? Would he have known that she was the Phantom's daughter? Would he have even cared?

Yes, Erik thought, this was his fault, but now she was safe with young de Chagny watching over her. He watched as his daughter's demeanor change from shocked to comforted, and he let the young couple be.

-0-0-0-

Another splash coming from far below reminded Erik to look over the edge of the bridge. "The fool!" he muttered. "What was he thinking?"

"May he rot in Hell," Aurelia whispered.

"Not Firmin…I mean Raoul! The vicomte was waiting in a boat beneath this very spot while I climbed up the pillar. He must have seen a man fall over the side, and in the darkness, couldn't tell which of us it was. He has dived into the water to try to save him! With the tide coming in, he doesn't stand a chance against those eddies. "

Without hesitation, Erik prepared to descend the pillar. He tugged on the Punjab lasso a couple of times to free the slipknot, and then hauled in the thin line and secured it on the iron railing. He wouldn't have time to climb all the way down, but he could go far enough so that he could enter the water without killing himself on impact.

"What are you doing?" Vincent cried out. "You'll drown if you go into that water!"

"Get her back to the hotel, and see to her wounds."

Vincent kicked off his shoes, shucking clothing as he talked. "He's my father! I'm a strong swimmer. I'll go."

"You're a strong swimmer with a dislocated shoulder. Stand aside, boy. You're only slowing me down."

Aurelia tried to cry out to him, but the abuse she had suffered that evening reduced her voice to a mere rasp.

"Don't worry." He took one last look at her. "I know what I'm doing."

Without a backwards glance, he stepped over the edge and disappeared into the shadows.

-0-0-0-


	55. Chapter 55

Note from the authors: Sorry this is a few days late, but Lizzy and I took the weekend off to celebrate Easter with our families.

**To Be Loved**

**Chapter 55**

April 25, 2011

"_What makes the desert beautiful is that somewhere it hides a well."_

~Antoine Saint-Exupery

-0-0-0-

"Will she be all right?" Those were the first words out of Vincent's mouth, before the doctor had even had a chance to set his dislocated shoulder. The young man had endured the procedure without so much as a groan of discomfort, and now, as Doctor Calvert finished tying the sling around his neck, he was becoming impatient.

Vincent had gotten Aurelia home as quickly as possible. His injured arm necessitated seeking help, since the abuse she had suffered (and the chloroform Firmin had used to subdue her) had left her shaking so badly that she was unable to walk unassisted. Had he been able, he'd have carried her the whole way, holding her tight in his protective embrace.

As they got closer to the city centre, it was inevitable that they'd come across a night watchman. He found one on his rounds a few blocks from the Pont de Pierre, and informed him that a man had fallen off the side of the bridge. When the watchman eyed the young woman with him, covered with what was obviously the young man's overcoat, clinging to her escort's arm and walking with an unsteady foot, he became suspicious and voiced his concern. Vincent tossed it off as a case of the vapors. "Poor dear saw it all," he explained. "I'm afraid she's faint with distress."

"You sure you're all right, miss?" the watchman had asked her directly. Fortunately, he could not see the marks beneath the scarf that covered her shorn head and much of her battered face.

Aurelia had offered a half-hearted smile. "As all right as one can expect, after seeing something so upsetting as…as what we just saw." She'd turned to Vincent. "Can…can we go, now?"

Vincent had looked pointedly at the watchman. "You'd better get going, if you plan on doing something to save that man, or perhaps I should simply go to headquarters and refer the matter to your superiors."

"No, sir. That won't be necessary." And off he'd gone at a trot toward the bridge.

That taken care of, Vincent had hailed a cab, tucking Aurelia inside before they encountered anyone else and had to answer more awkward questions. Soon, they were at the hotel, where Vincent immediately summoned Jabes's father and told the man what they needed. A few minutes later, the house doctor had met them at the Delacorte suite, the Vicomtesse following close behind after being notified of her son's return. She'd explained that Marc and the house detectives were remaining in the de Chagny suites, keeping watch over the three girls. "I want them with us until we're certain all the trouble has passed," she said. Vincent had nodded absently, his main concern the young woman he had rescued, but he soon learned that his services were no longer needed.

"You go and look after yourself," his mother had instructed him kindly. "The doctor and I will take care of Mlle Delacorte. Right now, she needs a woman's touch – a mother's touch. As soon as he is finished, I'll send him to look after your shoulder."

Vincent reluctantly admitted that his mother was no doubt correct, gave her a brief, familial kiss on the forehead, then headed to the sitting room where Jabes had poured him a bracer as they'd waited for the doctor, who was now treating the injured shoulder.

The strain of the past twenty-four hours was showing in the furrows on Doctor Esprit Calvert's forehead. He'd run from one emergency to the next ever since the crowds began arriving for the race. There had been the routine calls for the kinds of minor mishaps that characterized cases a house doctor was likely to see, running the gamut from skinned knees to upset stomachs to a dog bite by an aggressive Pomeranian. Then, just as he had begun to think he might rest a while and catch a few winks, he'd been summoned to the Delacorte suite and sworn to secrecy in the middle of the night. Pah! As if he would betray a patient's confidence, especially that of a fine guest of the Regent!

Though Vincent's dislocated shoulder was out of the ordinary, the young man was strong and healthy, and Calvert had little worry but that he'd make a complete recovery. Mademoiselle Aurelia's condition, however, caused him the most concern. "She needs rest," the doctor explained. "She has had quite an ordeal, but I do not believe there is any lasting damage. Not physically, that is." He hesitated, not wanting to inadvertently offend the young aristocrat. "If you want to know whether her abductor molested her—"

"That isn't what I was asking! I don't care…I mean…I do care about her injuries, but…I just want her to be all right. That's all that matters."

Relieved by his patient's response, the doctor put a light, reassuring hand on Vincent's arm. "She has suffered some cuts and scrapes, as well as some minor contusions. Her throat is sore from when the man strangled her, and it is raw. From what she was able to tell me, it sounds like he used some kind of chemical to sedate her, but she will make a full recovery. Most encouraging is that during my examination, I could find no evidence that she was…outraged…in any other way. Her emotional state, however, is…fragile."

"Of course! After what she has been through! Anyone would be—"

The doctor gave an understanding nod. "Madame le Vicomtesse is staying with her until she falls asleep. I have given her a decoction to help her rest. I'll be leaving as soon as your mother emerges. Is there anything else I can do for you?"

"I'd like for you to stay until my father and Monsieur Delacorte return. Please don't tell my mother, but they may be in need of your assistance. You see, Father went into the river to try to save…the good-for-nothing when he…when he fell into the water. And Monsieur Delacorte went in after my father." After a moment of quiet contemplation, he added, "I'm not certain, but Monsieur Delacorte may have been injured in the scuffle with this miscreant who attacked his daughter. I didn't mention this to Mother. No need to upset her any more than necessary, wouldn't you agree? She need only know that they are on their way."

"I am, of course, at your service." Calvert poured himself a cup of coffee that Jabes had sent for. He feared it would be hours before he would be returning home to his own bed and blessed sleep.

Jabes, who had been hanging around in the background and doing his best to stay out of everyone's way, clung to every word. He had insisted on staying until the other men returned in case there was more trouble, but as the waiting stretched on with no end in sight, he grew anxious. The tick tock of the mantle clock was the only sound in the still night, other than the occasional clank of silver spoons against fine china coffee cups. Finally, he could stand it no more. "Shouldn't we call the police? They have rescue boats at the riverfront."

"I already informed a night watchman that I saw a man fall from the bridge. I imagine by now that the authorities are out looking."

The sound of the door to the first bedroom opening grabbed their attention, and they all turned to see Clementine emerge looking careworn and weary. She peeked curiously at the note Erik had pinned to the door with a knife hours earlier, as though she had never seen such a sight, but left it in place. "She's asleep, at last," she said, pushing a stray lock of hair out of her eyes. She glanced around the room, then back to Vincent. "Your father hasn't returned yet?"

"Don't worry, Maman. They'll be along any minute; I'm sure of it," her son replied.

Another half hour went by and still no sign of Erik and Raoul. Clementine kept herself busy by regularly checking on Aurelia. Vincent tried to read an old newspaper but ended up tossing it aside, and sat fidgeting in his chair. Jabes and the doctor, in subdued tones, tried to engage in small talk, but to no avail. Finally, around half past one, a commotion in the hallway broke the silence as a raucous song assailed their ears.

"A fanfaronade at this time of night? Someone is celebrating!" Jabes opened the door to fuss at the revelers when much to his surprise, there stood the illustrious vicomte and the famous author, arm in arm, dripping wet and bedraggled.

Erik and Raoul strode triumphantly into the suite, grinning like a pair of successful knights-errant who'd just slain the dragon. Dirty knights-errant, that is. Lap blankets smelling of horse and hay were tossed over their shoulders, having been snagged from the cab that drove them to the hotel, and they reeked of filthy tidal river.

Clementine burst into tears and threw her arms around her husband, sobbing with relief.

"You'll get wet," Raoul protested, trying to keep up a heroic stance against the onslaught of his wife's affectionate embrace.

"I don't care. Now shut up and kiss me."

And so he did. Twice. The others nodded with appreciation for the gusto with which Raoul kissed his wife of twenty-two years. Bits of weed and algae dotted the man's clothing, and his thinning hair was plastered to his head, but if asked, all would have agreed that he had never looked more handsome than at this very moment.

Erik glanced about the room, his eyes settling upon an unfamiliar face. Under the scrutiny of this steady stare, the physician nervously introduced himself. Jabes quickly stepped forward and vouched for him, saying, "He can be trusted to keep this confidential, if that is what you wish. My father-in-law has known him for years."

Erik kept the corner of his horse blanket over the unfortunate half of his face, to spare the others from the sight of it. His gaze traveled to the door to Aurelia's room, and he found himself torn between the need to see his daughter and to reassure himself that she was safe and unharmed, and the overwhelming sense of guilt that he was responsible for her recent tribulations. He was oblivious of Vincent, who came close enough to whisper a question in his ear.

"Firmin?" the young man asked, securing Erik's attention as he discreetly returned the mask and wig he had borrowed for the ruse.

Erik turned his back on the others before looking at the items in his hand. The scuffle had ruined them. He had spares in his valise, but for the time being, he would have to keep his face hidden under the ragged blanket. He shook his head in response to Vincent's question. "The rogue didn't make it. He's at the bottom of the river, sleeping with the fishes."

"Did I hear correctly?" Clementine said vehemently, muttering a most unladylike epithet under her breath. "You said that horrible man drowned? Well, good riddance!" She brushed the front of her clothing, ridding it of debris that had been transferred from Raoul's dark, wet suit to her pretty dress. "After what he did, he didn't deserve to live."

"I did my best to save him, to bring him to justice," Raoul said, looking at his feet when he spoke. "But the man fought me tooth and nail. Finally, I had to let him go, or we'd both have been drowned." Marks on his face and hands gave evidence to how hard the devil had clawed at him in a struggle to the finish. The vicomte exchanged a meaningful glance with Erik. "He said something about not being taken alive, that he'd rather die than go back to prison."

Doctor Calvert cleared his throat and politely raised an important question. "Do either of you require my assistance?" he asked. He lifted his medical bag to indicate that he was prepared to get to work.

Erik waved him away, but pointed to his comrade in arms. "The vicomte took a nasty bump on the head. You might check him out before you leave."

While the others were occupied with tending to Raoul's scrapes, Erik slipped into Aurelia's room and closed the door behind him. A fairy light glowed on the bed table and even in the dimness, he could see the contusions and bruises that covered her face. Her chopped hair stuck out at odd angles, but in the diffused light the effect was rather like a halo. He did his best to be quiet, but she heard him nonetheless.

"Father?" she whispered, her voice thick with exhaustion. The sedative the doctor had given her had made her groggy, but now that her father was present, she was doing her best to fight off its effects.

She held out a hand to him, and in a moment, he was standing at her side taking her hand in his, ready to offer what comfort he could. It tore him up inside, seeing his little girl like this. "I'm here, child," he managed to eke out, barely in control of his emotions. "You should rest. We can talk about…anything you wish to discuss…tomorrow."

She shook her head to clear the cobwebs. "No, I can't rest. Every time I close my eyes I see him." Erik noticed that her speech was slightly slurred, no doubt a side effect of the medication she had been given. She peered up at him in the darkness, examining him. "Why are you covering your face? Take that nasty cloth away from your head. Who knows where it's been," she added, trying for a little levity. She had been through enough _sturm und drang_ to last a lifetime; what she wanted now was to be reassured that the madman was gone and that she was safe. She wanted to be able to smile and laugh, and have her father be the same way. She wanted to be daddy's little girl again, if only for tonight.

"Are you sure? With all you've had to suffer, you shouldn't have to see…this."

"Don't be silly. You're my father. You're exactly as you've always been. Brave and strong and true."

He knelt beside her rather than sit on the bed lest he get the linen damp, and continued holding her hand. He kissed her palm with his twisted lips, then nestled his undamaged cheek there. "I'm so sorry, Aurelia. I would have given my life to protect you from this man. I promise I'll never let anything like this happen again. I'll never let you out of my sight, not ever."

She mustered the strength to chuckle dismissively. "Don't blame yourself, Father. This man…whoever he was….he was…demented. I've never been more frightened in all my life." She shuddered at the thought but the sedative was making the memory seem like it had happened to someone else, someone other than herself, and she nestled her head against her father's chest. "He told me all sorts of lies about you, trying to make me hate you."

"Are you so sure they are lies?" he asked quietly, brushing tender fingers across her battered brow.

"The stories were preposterous. You couldn't possibly have been a spy for the French government, much less an assassin."

He looked down upon her rather indulgently. "And if I had been? It wasn't unusual in those days. Intelligence was a fledgling business. Actors and magicians were often hired to train operatives. They still are."

Her eyes widened in wonderment. Maybe those stories her father wrote contained more truth than she'd ever realized! "You don't mean…."

"I was a young man. Serving my country seemed very patriotic to me, at the time. It gave me a sense of belonging to something…something more important than a performing troupe. In my youth, I suffered from wanderlust, and such activities satisfied an inner need to see and explore the world. I traveled throughout the East, and served in the Tonkin Campaign—and elsewhere. After a while, I tired of the business and decided to leave it, but that is easier said than done. One needs to go far underground to avoid the long reach of espionage. That's…well, that is how I came to be living underneath the opera house." He paused and took a deep breath. This was the first time he had ever spoken so freely about his early years. Even Christine had never heard these stories. He gently released himself from his daughter's embrace. "But you need rest, and I need…need to change my clothes." He looked down at the bloodstain from the gash that Firmin had inflicted on him. It could barely be seen against the black shirt that he wore, but he knew that the wound needed to be cleaned and dressed, especially after being in the murky river. The last thing he needed was for the wound to turn septic. Life was very fragile, and he had much to live for.

He gazed at his daughter, and realized that she needed his protection now more than ever. Sadly, neither of them was in the safe, quiet world of Gamla Uppsala anymore, where life was simple and the people were honest. His little girl, who wanted so much to be a woman grown, had learned the hard way that the world that could be very dangerous. "We can discuss my dubious past another day. Tomorrow, we'll make plans for the future."

Her eyelids fluttered as she struggled against the sedative. "Father? Will you…will you stay here and sing me to sleep, like you used to? Please?"

He blinked back tears. How could he refuse?

-0-0-0-

The next morning, Erik arranged for room service to have breakfast brought up to their suite, along with a bed tray for Aurelia. Still in his brocade dressing gown, he was surprised when his daughter joined him at the small breakfast table.

She took in the sight of him, impeccably groomed with his wig combed to perfection and a fresh mask covering half his face, and felt secure. "Good morning," she said, mustering up as much cheerfulness as she could manage. She avoided his eyes, knowing that he was looking at the reminders of last night's misadventure that she could not disguise beneath the few cosmetics she owned.

Her short hair was slightly damp from being shampooed, and though she had tried to style it, Erik frowned at the sight. In the morning light, her injuries seemed even more pronounced to him than they had been in the darkness the night before. The sight of them pierced his heart like a knife. "You'll catch a chill," he said softly.

"Don't worry," she said brightly, her voice still raw from the throttling she had endured. A good night's rest had done wonders for her disposition, however. In fact, if not for the evidence of her ordeal, someone seeing her would have thought this was a morning much like any other. "I brought this." She shook a cashmere scarf at him before winding it around her head, turban-style. She was doing her best to rise above the outrages she had endured and was calling upon her puckish nature to pull her through. Her eyes almost had that sparkle in them that Erik dearly loved. "What do you think? Fetching?" she said in jest, before poking him playfully in the ribs.

"Ah," he gasped, grimacing and clutching his side where she had jabbed him with her fingertips.

"What happened?" she asked nervously. "Were you injured?"

"No…no. Not really. It's just a scratch." When Erik examined the cut last night, he had found a thin, curved slice that ran under his ribcage and could not be easily stitched. Fortunately, it was only a flesh wound. Once he had it cleansed, he'd bound the injury tightly, hoping it would not bleed through the dressing gown. If it did, he could always redress it if he had to go out for any reason. "It's nothing to worry about," he said, brushing aside her question, then watched as her lower lip trembled as tears welled in her eyes. "Aurelia, it's nothing. I swear it."

"It's…it's just that you were hurt, and Vincent…and …I heard something about the vicomte getting hit on the head. And all for me." She touched her chin where Firmin's blade had slashed her, fingering the small patch of gauze and tape that covered it.

Erik managed a grin. "Haven't you heard? The noggin's the best place for the vicomte to be hit. It's as hard as a rock, that skull of his. Impervious to injury."

She slumped into an overstuffed chair and stared listlessly at the dishes on the breakfast table. All of her favorite foods were there, yet she had no appetite. Her verve had vanished along with the light in her eyes.

"Here. Have a cup of tea. It will do wonders for you, and soothe your throat." Her father poured a cup, added three generous spoonfuls of honey, and brought it to her. He waited until she took a sip, and considered how to broach the subject of his plans for the future. He was certain that Aurelia would not object to returning to Sweden as quickly as possible. They wouldn't need to go back to their apartment in Paris; Bruguière could shut it down for them. They would buy everything they needed for the return trip to Gamla Uppsala, and they would be home, safe on the farm in no time at all. A knock at the door interrupted their privacy before he could say anything further, and Erik frowned. "Who could that be, at this hour?" he mumbled. He slunk across the room and peered through the tiny peephole. "My my. The entire de Chagny clan. What a surprise," he said drolly as he opened the door.

"I do hope we're not too early," Clementine said breezily. She stood on her tiptoes and brushed a kiss on Erik's cheek, just under the mask. Then, before he could protest, she squeezed past him and went straight to Aurelia, who welcomed her with a hug. Gigi, Cammie, and Zoé were equally quick in getting past him, not intimidated by him in the least as he stood in the middle of the doorway with his eyebrow quirked and both hands on his hips.

The de Chagny men were not nearly as bold as the women folk. "Won't you come in?" Erik asked at last, stepping aside as Raoul and Vincent crossed the threshold. The young man was carrying an enormous bouquet of mixed flowers and ignored him completely, intent upon seeing his young lady.

The room was suddenly as busy as a Paris café at noon. Everyone was talking at once. Erik took their coats as the women shrugged out of them. He waited for their hats, but save for Clementine, they kept them on. Apparently, the girls were too busy chattering to bother, so he stopped waiting and hung the coats upon the rack. As he rejoined the group, he noticed that Vincent was sitting on the ottoman next to Aurelia's feet, which was a bit too familiar for Erik's liking. He pulled a few chairs out from the small dining table and indicated that the others should sit. "I'll order more tea," he said pointedly. If ever there was a time to indulge himself in a fit of the grumps, it was now. "We were not expecting company this morning. How silly of me not to ask you in."

"I hope you won't hold it against us," Raoul said cheerfully, in stark contrast to Erik's mood. The nobleman was clearly none the worse for wear in spite of his ordeal in the water. It seemed that Clementine had pampered and soothed him in ways that could only be imagined. "We wanted to call on Aurelia – and on you, of course – and inquire if there is anything we can do for you, or if there is anything you need." Quietly, so that only Erik could hear him, he continued. "Our train doesn't leave until tomorrow, but we can postpone returning to Paris if she'd like a few more days to recuperate."

"That won't be necessary," Erik said sternly and much too loudly. Dark and mysterious undertones colored his gravelly voice. "We won't be joining you. In fact, we won't be going to Paris at all. I'm taking Aurelia home on the first train."

Aurelia's head shot up. "Home? Whatever do you mean?" She and Vincent had been exchanging pleasantries, but her father's adamant statement and brusque demeanor caught her attention.

"We're going home," he said. "Back to Sweden. It's peaceful and quiet, and no one knows where it is but ourselves and your godfather. We'll be safe there." He eyed the de Chagnys suspiciously. "And I trust that no one will divulge this information outside these four walls."

"I'll be just as safe in Paris, Father," Aurelia responded quickly. "I'm not as naïve as I once was. I'll be more careful in the future."

"And I say we are leaving France for good. I won't risk losing you."

"What of my schooling? I have no intention of quitting in the middle of the year. I've worked too hard to throw it all away because of one…unpleasant experience." She faltered, and took a sip of her tea to help her recover her quavering voice. "If I leave now, that horrible man will have won. He will have destroyed all I've yearned for. I won't have it, Father. I simply won't."

Erik was caught off guard by her forceful tone. "You…you'd stay in Paris? And if I leave…would you still stay? Alone?"

She lowered her eyes. "Please try to understand. I love our home in Sweden, but right now, I need to be in Paris. It's where my future lies."

Erik was gobsmacked. For once, he was at a loss for words.

Raoul, who was standing beside him, mumbled. "It seems your daughter inherited her mother's sauciness and your stubborn streak."

"What impertinence!" Erik growled. He stared daggers at the vicomte for his cheekiness. Slowly, his features softened and he grinned at his daughter. "If anything, it's bravery." Paternal pride shone in his mismatched eyes. "That's my girl."

Vincent, who, like the others in the room had been caught up in the exchange, turned his attention back to Aurelia and decided it was time to press his luck. "Would it be too much to hope that I might call on you soon?" he asked. "The opera season is about to begin, you know. I hear the Palais Garnier has incomparable acoustics. We could go to one of the performances."

"I'd like that," she said warmly. She let her hand touch his injured arm ever so softly, and beamed at him. "That is, if racing allows you any spare time."

"Racing?" he asked, as if bewildered. He was delighted with the prospect of seeing Aurelia, but at the moment seemed a wee bit dazzled. "Oh yes. Racing. Of course, the season is over, so I'm considering going back to school. Your father has encouraged me to study mechanical engineering. I think it might come in handy. Don't you agree?" He dared a conspiratorial wink at her, knowing that his head was turned so that no one but Aurelia would notice it. Attending university in Paris would keep him close by, and make it easier for the two of them to see each other.

Aurelia smiled demurely, and turned her attention to her father. "I don't want to leave any of my friends behind," she said, holding out a hand to Gigi. "I feel as though I have sisters…and that you are all a part of my family."

The three Chagny girls began to snicker. Soon the snickering turned to giggling. "Your sisters have something to share with you," Gigi said, barely able to contain their secret any longer. On her cue, she, Camille, and Zoé tore off their hats. Gone were their thick, luxuriant locks, replaced by hair as closely cropped as Aurelia's own. "Every girl in Paris will want her hair cut like ours," she explained, showing off her coif. "It's the new 'Titus' hairstyle, short and chic. We're calling ours 'the Aurelia,' and it's going to be all the rage."

Clementine brushed away a few tears of her own. "I'm very, very proud of all my girls," she said, gathering up all four of them into her arms for a hug.

Raoul drew Erik aside. "I know you better than you think. Your instincts are to go to ground, and to take Aurelia into hiding where the world will never find her. You needn't worry about her, though. Vincent will watch after her, when you can't be with her. At least until we're sure there are no more threats."

"This would never have happened to her if not for me. I'll spend the rest of my life watching over her, protecting her—"

"Guarding her and guiding her?" Raoul paused thoughtfully. "That didn't work out too well last time, as I recall. Firmin was a lone wolf, but if you really feel protection is necessary, why not hire a bodyguard? Someone who can watch out for her…from a discrete distance, of course. She need never know."

"I don't keep secrets from my daughter!" His pallid complexion flushed with color. "At least not where her safety is concerned."

Clementine left the younger generation talking amongst themselves, and sidled up to the men. "It is true that fame can have its drawbacks. This might have happened to anyone of a celebrated status. I've read that opera singers and other performers often become the objects of fixation by lunatics who stalk them day and night. Why, didn't you read about it in L'opéra temps de france, the magazine devoted to news about music?"

Of course, the moment Clementine stepped away, all of the "youngsters" were keen on hearing what was going on with the adults. "Don't I get a say in this?" Aurelia interjected. "Prudence is justified, but let's not over react. I don't want to spend the rest of my life thinking someone's out to get me. I want to sing. Isn't that harmless enough?"

"We'll protect you," Gigi promised, her natural buoyancy enough to brighten any mood. "You have the entire de Chagny girl army at your disposal."

Cammie and Zoé nodded enthusiastically, their heads bobbing in unison. "And if anyone gets too close," Zo vowed, "WHAM! Right in the kisser!"

Raoul gasped audibly. "Where on earth did you learn such talk!"

"Really, Papa," his daughter replied with mock indignation. "It's the latest slang! You need to get out more often. Live a little!"

He scowled at her, but when she grinned back at him, he couldn't stay angry for long.

-0-0-0-

In Paris a week later, Édouard Bruguière joined Erik at his apartment to catch up on the story of the adventure in Bordeaux. Together, they nursed snifters of cognac while gazing out the large windows that overlooked the splendid view of the city in the throes of autumn. November was coming to an end and darkness descended far too early these days. Before long, snow would cover the ground, but not tonight. Tonight, lamps glimmered in the glass panes across the City of Lights. Here and there, a candle's flame danced on a drafty windowsill while others were illuminated with the brighter gas or electrical lighting. Inhaling deeply, one could smell the aroma of roasting chestnuts being sold on street corners as the scent wafted on air currents and floated into the apartment. Altogether, it would have been a charming scene, if not for the subject under discussion. Erik longed for the peace and quiet of his farm in Sweden, but he knew that the long, cold winter that had yet to touch Paris was already hard upon the North.

On the other hand, Christmas in Paris would offer a welcome change of pace from all the winters spent in darkness. It had been different when Christine was alive and when Aurelia was younger, but his daughter had made her choice to stay in Paris, and Erik was unwilling to return home alone. Let Thor and his bride, Kerin look after the place. Since he would be staying in Paris, Erik was determined to make the best of it.

"You know, I think I might send a letter to Mme Giry. She's still with her daughter, is she not? Seems to me I have a lot of amends to make where she is concerned. She has been, after all, a good friend to me throughout the years, even when I rebuffed her kind overtures. The least I can do is let her know how much I appreciate her help."

Bruguière opened one of the tall windows slightly to draw out the cigar smoke that he knew his host found loathsome. After hearing the whole tale, he felt tobacco was necessary to calm his nerves, and Erik did not begrudge him his noxious habit. He drew the smoke into his mouth and blew it out the window in a long exhalation that allowed him time to collect his thoughts.

"Don't change the subject," the retired barrister chided. "So, the boy didn't kill Firmin after all?"

Erik snorted. "Of course he did. No one could have survived that fall into the whirlpools underneath the bridge. And I must say, wherever he is, Firmin should be thanking whatever gods he prays to that he's dead. If I'd gotten my hands on him, after what he did to my daughter…."

His old friend finished the thought. "He's better off dead."

Erik took a moment, struggling with his conscience before deciding to tell his most trusted confidante the whole truth. "The vicomte dove into the water because his heroic ideals would not allow him to do otherwise, would not allow him to sit by and watch a man drown. Don't forget, he wasn't certain which of us had fallen into the water. For all he knew, it was Vincent…or me. The result of his noble impulse is that he barely made it out alive. Good thing he had the presence of mind to tie a rope around his waist before he went in head first. I might never have found him otherwise."

"You mean to say that you saved Raoul de Chagny's life?"

Erik chuckled as he realized the irony of the situation. "The vicomte found himself caught in an eddy and was fighting a losing battle with the current when I arrived, barely in time to pull him out before he went under. He ended up badly scraped and bruised from being pushed against the pillar by the incoming tide, and I believe he may have been trapped beneath our boat for a few terrifying minutes. The force of the water's current is powerful beyond your imagination. Let's agree that de Chagny is stronger than I thought he was, however. I doubt I could have survived that current." He took another sip of cognac before proceeding. "I believe Firmin died on impact. In any case, I'm certain he was dead by the time I got there, and I doubt the vicomte had anything to do with it. No, Raoul lied simply because he didn't want his son to carry that burden with him…the burden of having taken a man's life. I went along with it because Vincent is only twenty years old, you know, and barely that."

Bruguière cocked his head. "He's hardly lived a mollycoddled life. I mean, he did spend over a year in the navy. Besides, by the time you were twenty…."

Erik cut him off. "Let's not speak of that." He twirled the amber liquid in his snifter and watched the vortex form in the center of the glass. Quietly—so quietly it was barely audible—he continued. "When I was Vincent's age, I was a free lance operative for the French intelligence community, but that information is classified as a government secret. I can say no more about it." His gazed was fixed on a point far away, as he thought about his past. "Perhaps it would be best if we returned to Sweden after all…or somewhere else. Somewhere no one has ever thought of."

"I hear Siberia is particularly appealing this time of year," Édouard retorted. "No one will look for you there." He ignored the threatening glare from his friend. "Don't be daft, man. You can't run and hide all your life. Even if you could, you can't expect Aurelia to do so. This is her time to shine. She's going to star in the conservatoire's production of Faust."

Erik said bolt upright. "What did you say? She's singing Marguerite?"

"Of course she is! You mean, you hadn't heard? It's all over le Place de l'opéra."

"She didn't tell me. I…she's with Vincent. I haven't seen her since she left for school this morning. They're to come home promptly after class is let out."

Erik became pensive as memories came unbidden to mind. Some memories were happy, such as those joyful first days after Aurelia had been born, and some were sad, but he focused on the most bittersweet of all. Aurelia was to sing the role that made Christine famous. His heart was filled with pride at the very thought of it, but there was also unspeakable sadness at the recollection of Christine's untimely passing. How resplendent she had been in the same part! He could only imagine how Aurelia would sing! Paris might never be the same again after his daughter's talent was revealed. Suddenly, the attar of irises filled the air. Erik reveled in it, for he knew it could only mean one thing.

The attorney sneezed so hard that his halo of grey hair shook. He pulled out an enormous linen handkerchief and dabbed his nose. "There it is again. That damned perfume always make me sneeze. Where is it coming from, anyway? I don't see any flowers in here. One of your neighbors must spend a fortune on colognes!"

Erik laughed. "I love the fragrance. It means that…that is to say, it reminds me of…of Christine."

While he mused over the significance of the fragrance, a commotion at the doorway told him that Aurelia had arrived. Vincent lagged but a step behind her, ever alert to any potential dangers that might threaten.

"Father!" Aurelia called from the foyer. "Have you heard? You'll never guess what has happened!" She took off her hat and coat and rubbed her hands through her short hair before helping Vincent hang up his hat and coat. "I have the most wonderful news!"

Erik stared down his nose at his old friend. "Looks like we'll be staying on a while longer, no matter what I might have preferred."

"Of course you will stay. You can't spoil this for her." Bruguière poked Erik on the chest with four fingers. "Be vigilant, but be sensible. Don't over react. Isn't that what Christine tried to teach you?"

The two men rose and signaled to Aurelia and Vincent, who joined them at their table.

Erik spoke first. "Your Uncle Eddy has been telling me about a rumor. Is it true you're singing the lead in Il Muto?"

"Pshaw!" Aurelia responded before kissing her father's cheeks, and then greeting her godfather in the same way. "It's much better than that! I'm to be the new Marguerite! Isn't it exciting?"

"Indeed it is," he said graciously. "I am very proud of you, my dear. Your mother would be so pleased with what you've accomplished."

"I can hardly wait! I'm to meet with the costumer tomorrow morning. And there'll be wigs! Imagine, they'll be just like my own long hair until it grows out again. And oh! I need another hat! I can hardly wear this old thing with my new ensembles."

Vincent interjected a comment while Aurelia was catching her breath. "I couldn't help noticing a Peugeot motobicylette parked out front. Whose is it? One of your neighbors living dangerously?"

"It's mine," Erik said smugly. "And it isn't a motobicylette. In case you didn't notice, it has a 5-cylinder engine, and it's called a motorcycle. Five of them were entered in the Paris to Madrid race last May." He paused dramatically before adding, "But none of them were as powerful as mine. They were only 3.5 horsepower, and as I said, mine's five. I might be able to push it to six, with a little help." Without a hint of sarcasm, he asked, "Know anyone who's interested in motors?"

Not a word was spoken. He looked up from his cognac to see a trio of blank faces staring at him. They could not believe what they were hearing. Well, if that's the way they were going to be, he might as well push it to the limit.

"I thought it was time I had some fun," he said.

And he meant it.


	56. Epilogue

To Be Loved  
Epilogue

By HDKingsbury & MadLizzy

May 1, 2011

**Author's Note:** Here it is - what you've either been looking forward to...or dreading. The end of the story. Lizzy and I would like to take this opportunity to thank each and every one of you who have been following Erik's journey with us. A special thank you to all of you who took a few minutes to let us know what you thought along the way. I am hoping to eventually make this, and our other story - _Treasures of Egypt_ - available for purchase on Lulu, perhaps (if life is kind and gives us time for edits and revisions) in time for Christmas. I will post updates on this and other Phantom related projects on my profile, so stop by from time to time, drop us a line via the ol' PM...but most of all...ENJOY! ~HDKingsbury

* * *

"_Sweet is the recollection of difficulties overcome."_ ~Proverb

-0-0-0-

1923

Erik closed the book he was reading and grazed his hands across the embossed leather cover. It was one of his favorite collections of poems by the Persian poet, Omar Khayyam. He slipped it back into the empty space on the bookshelf, and quoted aloud:

The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ,  
Moves on: nor all thy Piety nor Wit  
Shall lure it back to cancel half a Line,  
Nor all thy Tears wash out a Word of it.

Twenty years had passed since that terrible night on the Pont de Pierre. Aurelia had indeed become a sensation not only in Paris, but across all of Europe's most famous opera houses. Theatrical life appealed to her, and she spent several years traveling the world, touring the United States and Australia as well as parts of South America and Egypt.

While she was basking in the limelight, Vincent applied himself diligently to his studies, and earned a degree in engineering from the Université de Paris or La Sorbonne, the same university that his friend Marc attended, while continuing to make a name for himself as a racecar driver and innovator. After years of pleasurable pursuit, he finally convinced Aurelia to become his wife, and they were wed at La Madeleine on her twenty-fourth birthday, March 5, in the Year of Our Lord 1908. Erik walked his daughter down the aisle but upon arriving at the altar, he kissed her forehead and whispered in her ear, "I am not giving you away; I'm merely letting you explore this fling of yours."

The marriage was the talk of the season, and both families had been pleased with the union. The moment Erik sat down in the front pew, the familiar fragrance of irises had surrounded him and he was certain that Christine was making her presence known to him. After the traditional supper that followed the nuptials, Erik had waltzed with his daughter and with Clementine (as was the custom) and had danced with the three de Chagny girls. He had even danced with Mme Giry, but he had drawn the line at any further public display of himself and had said his goodbyes the moment Aurelia and Vincent departed for their honeymoon.

His new hobby of motorcycling provided many thrills, but none of them compared to the feeling he got from seeing Aurelia succeed in her career and her marriage. And it had proved to be a fruitful marriage. Their first child, a son, was born shortly before the couple's third anniversary. Little Erik-Raoul Delacorte de Chagny was bold and adventurous, combining the best attributes of both his familial lines. He had Erik's cunning and Raoul's winsomeness; in short, it was impossible to say no to him. Fortunately, his innate even temperament kept him from becoming a tyrant in spite of his unstoppable nature. A second child, a girl, was born a little more than a year later. As the years passed, Aurelia's family became accustomed to spending summers on the Delacorte farm in Sweden with Erik, and their winters in their home in Paris near Clementine and Raoul.

Only a worldwide war could intrude upon their happiness. When the sabers began to rattle, the excitement in France was palpable. This was to be the grandest venture since Napoleon's conquests, a valiant conflict, and expectations were high that revenge would be exacted upon the Germans for their transgressions of 1870. Within a few weeks, however, excitement on the fields of honor gave way to desolation on the moonscape that was trench warfare. Gone were the days of glorious charges with bayonets gleaming in the sun. Instead, modern warfare was anything but glorious, and exacted a heavy toll, and morale evaporated after the bloodbaths of Verdun and the Somme.

Raoul was recalled to La Royale, the French navy, where he was promoted to the rank of Admiral and assumed command of the pre-dreadnought Charlemagne in the Dardanelles Campaign; but first, he evacuated his family to Clementine's ancestral home in the English countryside, which had been converted to a hospital for convalescing soldiers. Under his command, the Charlemagne led the bombardment of Ottoman fortifications and ports in order to keep supply lines open for the troops, and was one of the few ships in the entire fleet to remain undamaged throughout the war, in spite of heavy mining of the seaways by German submarines.

As with Raoul, the top priority in Erik's mind was his family's safety. He insisted that Aurelia, his grandchildren, and his dear friend Édouard retreat to Gamla Uppsala, where Sweden's neutrality helped ensure their well-being. This was especially important since Aurelia was already expecting her third child.

With the knowledge that his family was secure, Erik volunteered his services to the French military intelligence, and was once again thrust into the world of espionage. Now approaching his sixth decade, nobody cared that he had once haunted an opera house, and were only interested in what he had to offer in defense of his country. The erstwhile Fantôme saw little of the front lines but instead spent long hours behind the scenes laboring over snippets of ill-gotten information, and assembled a cadre of elite encryption specialists and ciphers. Under his guidance, the French soon took the lead in military intelligence, especially in the Dardanelles and the Balkans. After the United States entered the war, though, he was assigned to helping France's newest allies improve American codes, since each one had been broken by the Germans. It was Erik's idea to bring in a group of Native Americans to speak in their own tongue, which had a convoluted syntax that was incomprehensible to the logical and precise German army. Hence, he was largely responsible for the soldiers known as the Choctaw Code Talkers, whose messages were considered unbreakable.

Vincent, with his incomparable knowledge of French roads and bridges, volunteered for the infantry, but due to his education and background (both familial and his brief stint with the navy), he was quickly promoted to the rank of Captain. With his own history with motorized vehicles, he foresaw that this war would be the last in which horses played a major role, as the days of the noble warhorse gave way to the advent of machines. His skills were put to the test when he had to maintain supply routes, ensuring that those lifelines remained open so that ammunition, food, and medicine got where it was needed. And it was Vincent de Chagny who was largely responsible for the Miracle of the Marne, in which 600 Parisian taxis ferried 6,000 reserve soldiers to the front, thereby saving Paris from a German assault.

By the fall of 1915, though, French morale was so low that soldiers had begun to desert by the tens of thousands, and officers were ordered to bind deserters with ropes and force them to march into No Man's Land – that land between the opposing army's trenches – where the helpless sods were picked off by German snipers. By 1916, drunkenness was rampant in the trenches, and men openly cursed their commanders and sang insulting ditties about war profiteers and wooden graveyard crosses. By 1917, the men simply refused to fight. Once again, Vincent sprang into action, rallying them with promises of basic necessities such as latrines, leave, beds, and supply canteens. He also vowed that there would be no more futile offensive maneuvers such as the murderous one led by General Robert Nivelle, which cost nearly 100,000 Frenchmen their lives.

Only days after his moment of triumph in rallying the troops, Vincent began to show the first symptoms of having caught the influenza that had begun making its deadly way around the world. Thanks to his father's influence, he was evacuated to England, and soon found himself in the loving care of his own mother. He was one of the lucky survivors, and owing to the care he received and his own natural stamina, he was able to look forward to a long and happy life with his young wife and children.

Others did not fare so well. Most of the early victims recovered from the infection after a few days of incapacitating aches and pains. As they appeared to be fairly healthy, many were sent back to duty, which only helped the disease spread. As time passed with more and more soldiers being exposed to it, the virus grew deadlier. All too rapidly, the symptoms advanced, first with air hunger, then cyanosis, finally resulting in a slow and agonizing death from suffocation. Within a year, nearly everyone who caught it succumbed, including Jabes. Moved by the plight of the man's young widow and fatherless children, Erik arranged for them to be evacuated to Sweden for the duration of the war, where they joined Aurelia and her children on the little farm.

Édouard Bruguière was another who joined them on the growing compound that had once been scarcely large enough for Erik and Christine. At first, the attorney had been quite content with his retirement in Sweden. Far beyond the reach of the Spanish influenza pandemic in their sleepy Swedish village, he was happy to lead the life of a country squire. After a few months in the idyllic setting, Édouard soon found himself bored with country life and itching for something to do besides milk the goats and help watch after the children. He took to wandering the countryside, and while hiking through the fields one day, he suffered a fatal heart attack and died in the meadow overlooking the graveyard where Christine was buried beside the old cathedral. His last thoughts might have been of the empty grave that had been reserved for him near her side.

After the war, Erik retired to his farm in Gamla Uppsala. The Nystroms had long departed, but Thor and his wife, Kerin, looked after the farm while raising a family of their own. Erik was surprised to realize one day that he was never lonely. His winters were spent in his apartment in Paris, while Aurelia and her family spent much of the summer with him on the farm. After thirty years as a bestselling author, he laid down his pen and instead devoted himself to his music, to painting, and to tending the graves of his best friend and his wife. Yes, he grew old, but he never grew lonely. And not only did Aurelia and Vincent and the grandchildren keep him company, but Raoul and Clementine took him in as well whenever he came to Paris. In time, he became "Uncle Erik" to Vincent's sisters, who adored him…as did their children.

Eventually, Gigi and Marc married, and they were particularly fond of "Uncle Erik," who let Marc ride his motorcycles whenever Gigi wasn't looking. Camille had taken after Aurelia, and entered the conservatoire where she studied voice and piano. She had no plans to perform on stage, but rather thought of her education as a sort of finishing school that immersed her into the world of the working class. Levelheaded yet polished, she knew what she wanted out life and was hard working and earnest. Zoé, on the other hand, was a bit of a flibbertigibbet. She studied art, also at La Sorbonne, and was determined to become a famous (or was that infamous?) painter in the style known as Dada, which had sprung forth in Switzerland before the outbreak of the Great War.

All together, Aurelia and Vincent had three boys and two girls. At first, Erik didn't know what to do with the male offspring, because young Christine and Clementine-Katrine (Kitty, as she was called) had stolen his heart, but soon found himself riding herd on all five grandchildren who were every bit as bold and daring as Aurelia had been…but without any inhibitions whatsoever – or, seemingly, any sense of self-preservation. They were a rough and tumble lot who scaled the highest trees and jumped into the depths of the secret pond without any regard for their physical safety, and in doing so, shaved more than a few years off Erik's life, of that he was sure. Their escapades endeared them to him all the more, however.

He was partial to the one called Édouard, after his dear goat-loving friend. The boy was bright, but not athletic, and enjoyed having Erik teach him magic tricks that he then used to entertain the others after supper. Little Erik-Raoul took after himself in the brains department, but was the spitting image of his paternal grandfather. It was a little disconcerting, to say the least. The youngest, Philippe-Vincent, was a lovable imp who was full of vim and vigor and could charm his way out of almost any trouble he fell into; but when he couldn't , he accepted his punishment like a gentleman—and refined his technique so that he wouldn't get caught the next time.

One day when he was approaching his eightieth year, Erik was able to look back upon a full…and fulfilling life. He had once told Christine that the memory of their brief time together would last him a lifetime, and so it had. Sitting on the bench overlooking her grave where he often came to meditate or simply to enjoy the view of the surrounding countryside, he knew without a doubt that he had enjoyed the greatest exception of all: To Be Loved for Oneself. His heart ached with the gladness of it.

He sat back and listened to the laughter of the village children playing far in the distance, and smiled. He had successfully raised a brilliant daughter, and was now the proud patriarch of a family that held him dear. Aurelia and Vincent were approaching their middle years; as he had aged, so had they. Several of his grandchildren were old enough to start considering their own careers, and had even begun talking about which university they wanted to attend. He had done everything he had ever wanted. He had become respectable. He had been loved for himself. And, what is more, he had learned to accept himself as he was, warts and all.

A gentle breeze stirred the air, and wafting on the wind was the fragrance of irises. "Christine," he murmured. "Is it time? I have waited so long…."

She appeared before him, young and beautiful, shining like an angel. A golden aura surrounded her. "Yes, my love. It is time. We can be together again, at last." She held out her hand to him. "Come, Erik. I have so much to show you."

He stood up, and looked down at his hands. No longer did they bear the splotches and stains of old age, the wrinkles of time. He put a hand to his face…his terrible face...and felt smooth skin beneath his fingertips. He was young again! As young as he had been when he and Christine were first married! He lifted a hand to adjust his mask, as was his habit, but discovered that his face was bare. He turned away in shame, and covered his face as he did so. Instead of the rough map of scars and deformities, the uneven surface of his bald head, he was astonished to find smooth, unblemished skin. A full head of auburn-colored hair parted between his searching fingers. His mouth was not the hideous gash he remembered, but was perfect in every way. A miracle had occurred! He was unmarred, as he had always longed to be.

"I can hardly wait," he said, taking her arm. The two of them walked over the rounded top of the nearby knoll and into the light together.

That evening, when he didn't come home for supper, Aurelia and Vincent came looking for Erik, and discovered his body on the bench beside the graves. There was such a look of peace about him that it took Aurelia's breath as she wiped away the tears.

"Don't cry, my love," Vincent said, though his own eyes brimmed with sadness.

"I'm being selfish. It's just that…I'll miss him so," Aurelia replied, as the gentle breeze stirred her hair. "But I'm happy for him. He's with her now — my mother. Now he can be at peace."

In the distance, she thought she heard two voices – the voices of angels – carried on the wind, and in her heart, she knew it was her mother and father, united in song at last…forever.

~The End~


End file.
